


autumn leaves

by suspendrs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: American Harry, Anal Sex, And Lots of It, Bottom Louis, Dubious Consent, Dunkirk Au, French Louis, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Homophobia, M/M, Sad Harry, Sad Louis, Soldier Harry, Top Harry, Waiter Louis, War AU, at all actually, but not really, but only quick i promise, the french is wrong i FUCKING KNOW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspendrs/pseuds/suspendrs
Summary: “Brave?” Harry frowns, caught off guard. “No, not particularly.”
    “You seem brave,” Louis decides, pushing off the wall and stepping on the butt of his cigarette. “You are strong, and you are not mean. That’s good,” he assures, touching Harry’s arm gently.   “Thank you, but that’s not true,” Harry smiles ruefully. “I’m really not anything special.”  Or, Harry is an American soldier in France during World War II, and Louis is a French waiter that doesn't mean to fall in love with him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is late and hardly beta'd. thanks to Gabby for coming up for the idea for this one and sorry as usual that it's nothing that you asked for.
> 
> also, this fic is not textbook as far as the history. i wrote it to fit the story, not the actual history. i know the history is a bit off, but i did my best. mind the historical inaccuracies tag. 
> 
> also! i know the french is wrong! i'm not french! i used google translate! if you're offended by bad french maybe don't read this or at least don't leave a comment about it after thanks!!!!
> 
> inspiration and title are from Autumn Leaves by Nat King Cole
> 
>  
> 
> [Russian Translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5952784)

It’s safe to say Louis isn’t terribly impressed with the state of France at the moment. He saw this coming, he and everyone else in the country, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear. War is never ideal, of course, but this time it’s so close to home, literally right outside their front doors, and it’s really just annoying, when it’s not completely terrifying. Everyone is pretty much over the whole glory thing of war by now, especially after the first world war.

Nevertheless, it’s happening. Louis can see the soldiers wandering down the streets of his beautiful little village from the window of his flat, can hear them talking and laughing loudly. They’re Americans, the ones infesting his village. They speak ugly English, with harsh vowels and flat words and they laugh like idiots, all of them, at all hours of the night when Louis is trying to catch up on sleep. They’ve completely taken over the pub where Louis works, running the poor cooks into the ground with all their demands and leaving Louis exhausted and irritable after a long night running around for them.

Louis peeks through the kitchen door as Stan comes through it, surveying the dining room quickly while he ties his apron around his waist. Stan bumps him with his hip and rolls his eyes, leaning in close to Louis’s ear.

“Table eleven,” he mutters, patting Louis’s shoulder. “Been making drinks for them since they came in. Careful, yeah?”

Louis sighs and nods, smoothing out his apron and making sure his hair is pushed back from his face, the way he likes it. He’s lucky the bartender is his best friend, and that he’s always sure to warn Louis when he thinks a group is going to give him grief.

Louis is what the Americans call a _fairy_ , meaning he’s short and slim and curvy and quite visibly queer. Louis doesn’t mind the way he looks, finds it quite to his advantage sometimes, but with large groups of terribly loud and terribly brash American soldiers, well, things can get a bit scary.

He tucks his notepad into the pocket of his apron and talks himself up a bit, squaring his shoulders and pushing through the door into the dining room with easy confidence. It’s loud, much louder than it has any right to be, because Americans are animals and it makes Louis’s French blood boil. 

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he greets, waiting with his hip cocked until he gains the table’s attention. “Good evening. Can I help you?”

One of the soldiers at the outermost edge of the booth, a large man with a close cropped haircut and empty gray eyes, looks him over quite obviously. Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes when the man chuckles, nudging the soldier next to him.

“Our little fairy’s back,” the soldier sneers, grinning a rather unsettling grin in Louis’s direction. “Thought we’d scared you off last night, but you came back for more, eh?” he says suggestively. The rest of the men laugh raucously, except for one in the very back corner of the booth. Louis pays the whole lot of them no mind. 

“ _Je veux que tu étais mort_ ,” Louis hums sweetly, tapping his pen against his notepad. “Would you like to order now, or should I come back?”

“You askin’ me to come in the back?” the soldier jokes loudly, setting the rest of the table off again. Heads are turning throughout the pub and Louis rolls his eyes, dropping his notepad back into his apron and turns on his heel, marching back to the kitchen.

“ _Je ne peux pas faire ca!_ I cannot do this!” he groans, tugging at his hair. “ _Idiots_ , the lot of them!”

“All in a day’s work, Louis,” Stan grins. He seems to have just come back inside from a smoke, his shirt cool when Louis drops his forehead against it. “ _Retourner au travail_ , go on. You’ve handled them before,” he shrugs.

“Insufferable, all of them,” Louis mutters, toeing at the ground. “Fucking Americans.”

Stan pats his shoulder again and Louis takes a deep breath, turning around to head back out of the kitchen. There are groups of soldiers at nearly every table, but none are quite as drunk or rowdy as table eleven. 

“Fairy’s back!” the soldier at the front calls, getting the other men’s attention. “Quickly, order before he flies off again!”

Louis clenches his jaw and scribbles down the orders as they’re thrown at him, wondering how hard it would be to convince Jon, the cook, to slip some rat poison into their food. One of the soldiers tries to pinch at Louis’s thigh and Louis steps back with a sigh, eyes falling on the one soldier at the back left corner of the booth.

The soldier’s eyes are sorrowful, boring into Louis’s own. Louis finds himself slightly captivated, intrigued by this one soldier he’s never seen before. The man, boy really, looks terribly apologetic, like he’s embarrassed by the way his comrades are treating Louis.

The soldier at the end lands a pinch on the outside of Louis’s thigh, just shy of his bum, and Louis breaks his eyes away from the magnificent eyes of the quiet soldier. He slaps the man’s hand away with his notebook and steps back again, narrowing his eyes.

“ _Vous etes un cochon, aller en enfer_ ,” he says calmly, giving the man a tight smile. He glances back at the quiet soldier before he goes, seeing his green eyes are a bit softer now, his lips pulled up in an almost smile. Louis wonders if he speaks French, if he knows Louis just called his friend a pig and told him to go to hell.

He walks back to the kitchen to put the order in, and then does his rounds of the rest of the pub. They’re not usually very busy, which is why he’s the only waiter on tonight. They usually only have a couple of regulars on any given night, but since the Americans came in earlier this week, they’ve been swamped every night. This is the only pub in the area that serves both good food and good liquor, which are two things Louis has learned Americans take very seriously.

Every time Louis passes by table eleven, he can’t help but glance at the soldier in the far corner. He meets his eyes every single time, and every single time, the boy smiles at him. It seems genuine enough that Louis doesn’t feel threatened, not like he does with the other soldiers. The one with the gray eyes gives Louis the creeps, makes him feel like he can’t turn his back for a second without being careful, like he’s going to get pinched or touched or hit or _something_ at any given moment.

He’s able to deliver the food to table eleven mostly without incident, until the gray eyed soldier reaches for his food with such ignorance for his surroundings that he sends his mixed drink flying, soaking through Louis’s trousers.

“Ah, _merde_ ,” Louis mutters, doing his best not to glare at the now howling soldier. He finishes handing off the rest of the food to the men squished into the booth, handing a plate of fries to the quiet soldier in the corner last.

“Merci,” the soldier smiles sweetly, taking the plate from Louis halfway so he doesn’t have to reach as far. He’s definitely not French; he speaks with a perfect American accent.

“ _De rien_ ,” Louis smiles back, straightening up and holding his tray against his hip. “Can I get you anything else?”

The soldiers are already too busy stuffing their faces to answer him, except the sweet one in the back. “No, thank you,” he says, eyes locked unwaveringly on Louis’s.

“Shout if you need anything,” Louis says, staring right back. It’s almost like he can’t look away; it takes actual effort to turn his face, pushing back through the door into the kitchen.

“Smoke break,” he calls to no one in particular, untying his apron and draping it over one of the pegs on the wall next to the door to the alley. He grabs his pack of smokes out of his rucksack and slips outside, leaning his back against the bricks between the door and the dumpster and pulling out a cigarette. 

He pulls his lighter of his pocket and leans his head back against the bricks once his cigarette is lit, taking a long, slow drag. It clears his head a bit, the mixture of smoke and cool night air in his lungs. He doesn’t know what it is about the soldier with the green eyes that makes him feel so strange, like as long as the soldier’s eyes are on him Louis is safe and free.

Louis is neither safe nor free, though, especially not at a time like this. The war is happening now, all around them, even though these soldiers have yet to go to battle. Louis’s never been safe, just because of who he is, who he’s always been. He doesn’t have a sob story, wasn’t beaten and ridiculed every day in school by the other boys, but he always knew it was a possibility, because he was different. It wasn’t until he was older that he realized exactly _why_ he was different, but he knew everyone else had always been able to tell.

He gets about halfway through his cigarette before the door pushes open, making him jump a bit. A tall, broad figure pushes out into the dark, eyes locking on Louis.

Louis sees the uniform first, and his heart gives a painful jolt and speeds up considerably. This is it, this is how he’ll die, at the hands of some shitty American just because he likes boys. Fuck.

He puts his cigarette back in his mouth and tries to play it cool, tries to hide how rigid his back is against the brick wall. The soldier draws nearer and Louis breathes out slowly, blowing his smoke directly into the man’s face.

When the smoke clears, the soldier is close enough that the light over Louis’s head catches the man’s eyes. They glint green, warm and curious, and Louis unclenches.

“Hi,” the soldier says, his voice quiet. “You speak English, right?”

“Enough,” Louis shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette. He keeps quiet, curious to see where this is going.

“My name is Harry,” the soldier says slowly, like he’s afraid Louis will have trouble understanding him. “I’m sorry about how the other soldiers treat you,” he frowns.

Louis laughs lightly, blowing his smoke up at the sky. He watches the moon for a moment and then pushes away from the wall, turning to face Harry.

He’s so much taller than Louis realized, having only seen him crammed into a four person booth with eight men. He’s broad, with wide sturdy shoulders and tiny little ears. He stands hunched over a little, like he’s inherently nervous. Louis wants to see him relaxed, happy.

He reaches up and sticks his cigarette between Harry’s lips, patting his chest firmly as he slips back through the door. He’s cold, he realizes, once he gets back into the heat of the kitchen. His pants are still wet from the drink that got spilled, and his fingertips are a little bit numb as he slinks into a corner away from the door, watching as it swings back open.

Harry’s eyes sweep over the room, but somehow they don’t land on Louis. He only gets a moment, anyway, before Jon spots him, and starts swatting at him and yelling in French. Harry jumps and scurries right out of the kitchen, and Louis watches him with a smile. He’s endeared, for some reason, by this gentle soldier with the bright green eyes and the pink, pink lips. Harry catches his eye every time he walks past table eleven for the rest of the night, right up until Louis has to kick them all out at closing time. 

Drunk American soldiers are terrifying, but Harry is not. He sends Louis one more little smile and then they’re all gone, the whole lot of them, and Louis finds he can’t stop thinking about him until long after he gets back to his flat.

-

When Louis gets work the following night, he’s genuinely not expecting to see Harry again.

He’s with the same group of soldiers, unfortunately, albeit the group is a bit smaller. The gray eyed buffoon is present, but they seem to be down a few of their other rowdy mates. Louis isn’t too terribly sorry.

Harry is in the back corner again, but since there are only four of them this time, he looks marginally more comfortable. They start in immediately with the crude comments, but Louis just tells them sweetly to all go and fuck themselves, and then takes their orders and is off. Harry watches him the entire time with an expression of mixed fascination and amusement. Louis tells his friend very graphically in French to eat shit and die, and Harry just grins and grins and says nothing.

After Louis get their food to them, he slips out to the alley for a smoke break. He wonders if Harry will follow him again, wonders how Harry even knew where to find him last night, and if maybe he’ll do it again. He smokes through one cigarette and snuffs it out under his shoe, pulling out another and lighting it with his face tipped up toward the sky. 

A cool breeze ruffles his clothes and he shivers, hunching down a little and breathing the smoke out slowly. He takes exactly three drags before the door opens, and he glances over to find Harry approaching him sheepishly.

“Bonjour,” Harry smiles, rubbing at the edge of his jaw. “Ah, sorry. Don’t know much French.”

“ _C’est d’accord_ , it’s alright,” Louis chuckles. “I learned English in school, when I was young. Think I still remember,” he shrugs.

“God, your accent is so pretty,” Harry sighs, leaning sideways against the wall next to Louis. “What is it about different accents that makes them so nice to listen to? Do you find my accent attractive?” he asks curiously.

“No,” Louis grins, glancing over at him. “It is quite ugly, actually. I used to think America was amazing, you know, from how everyone talks about it. But from what I’ve seen of its people, at least its soldiers,” he trails off, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I agree,” Harry grunts, slumping back against the wall. “Don’t tell the others I said that, though. They all take this bullshit very seriously.”

“Bullshit?” Louis frowns, watching Harry’s face.

“Ridiculousness,” Harry clarifies. “The insanity that is war.”

“I know what bullshit means,” Louis grins, chuckling when Harry blushes. “But you are a soldier, aren’t you supposed to love war?”

Harry scoffs, rubbing at his eyes. “Who could love war?”

The noise from inside the pub swells through the walls, the soldiers shouting and cheering about something. “Your friends, I think,” Louis says softly.

“No,” Harry says, solemn suddenly. “No. What a horrible thing. They tell us it’s necessary, it’s our duty, to be men of America we must serve our blessed country. Fucking bullshit,” he mutters, glaring down at his boots.

Louis falls quiet for a moment, taking a drag of his cigarette and holding the smoke in his lungs too long. “Smoke?” he asks quietly on the exhale, holding the box out to Harry.

“I don’t, thank you,” Harry says, waving his hand in refusal. Louis quietly slips the pack into his back pocket.

“Are you brave, Harry?” Louis asks suddenly, turning to look at him. 

“Brave?” Harry frowns, caught off guard. “No, not particularly.”

“You seem brave,” Louis decides, pushing off the wall and stepping on the butt of his cigarette. “You are strong, and you are not mean. That’s good,” he assures, touching Harry’s arm gently.

“Thank you, but that’s not true,” Harry smiles ruefully. “I’m really not anything special.”

Louis curls his fingers around Harry’s wrist, admiring for a moment the warmth of Harry’s skin under his fingertips. “ _Ne me dites pas de mensonges_ ,” Louis breathes, “do not tell me lies.”

Harry frowns, looking up at Louis’s face. “But I-”

“Shh, no,” Louis shakes his head. “You are brave, the bravest soldier I have met. Your friends, they are so mean, but they are only mean because they are _lâches_ , they are cowards. You are not a coward, Harry,” he smiles softly.

Harry watches him with something akin to wonder on his face, shaking his head. “You don’t even know me,” he muses, smiling when Louis draws back.

“I don’t need to,” Louis hums, letting go of his wrist and patting his hand gently. “I have to get back to work now,” he says.

“Of course,” Harry nods, but he catches Louis’s wrist when he tries to slip back through the door. “Thank you, Louis, for thinking I’m brave.”

“Do not thank me,” Louis says, pulling open the door and gently pulling his wrist free from Harry’s grip, “show me.”

Harry watches him until he’s back inside, and Louis feels like he’s full of melting butter. No, he doesn’t really know Harry, but he wants to. Maybe these American soldiers aren’t as bad as Louis originally thought.

-

Louis doesn’t work the next day, or the day after that. He mostly just holes up in his flat during his free time, reading all the books he never has time to read and playing all his favorite records. 

He loves his little flat so much. It has a beautiful little balcony off the main living area that looks out over the village, and it’s really too cold this time of year, but Louis likes to eat his breakfast out there at the quaint wicker set he got from his nan. If it’s not too freezing, he’ll curl up on the little outdoor settee after breakfast with a blanket and a book, or he’ll head back inside to turn on the Edith Piaf record his mum gave him for his birthday last year and make some tea.

He’s only 24, but for 1940’s Paris, he’s hardly anything to show for it. He never quite finished school, opting instead to stay home and help care for his siblings. They’re all mostly grown now, or at least grown enough that they don’t need his help anymore, and he’s finally been able to get his own place and start to try and build a life for himself.

He’s been working at the pub now for over a year. It’s the best work he can find to pay the bills, even if it’s quite shit. He’s always fancied working with kids, or maybe being an actor. He has these dreams, sometimes, late at night. Big dreams, fantastic ones. He wants so much out of the world, but the world doesn’t seem keen on giving him anything in its current state.

Regardless, two days off means a double shift at the pub, which means he’s there for both the lunch and dinner rush, which means he has ample opportunity to be harassed by rude American soldiers. He just hopes the sweet soldier with the pretty green eyes is there; he always makes Louis’s shift just a little bit more bearable.

“ _Salut_ ,” he calls to Stan, pushing through the front door of the pub and past the bar. “Are you here all night?”

“Unfortunately,” Stan smiles miserably, running his rag over the bar top. “And you?”

“All night, love,” Louis winks, blowing a kiss over his shoulder as he trots to the back of the pub to the kitchen. The pub is nearly empty, which is why he’s being so free; he wouldn’t dare to be as flamboyant and loud if he was in a room full of dirty Americans.

He pushes through the door to the kitchen and hangs his bag on his hook, grabbing his apron and tying it around his waist. He’s the only waiter on again today, he realizes, as he watches the other pack up and escape out to the door to the alley.

He brushes his hair out of his face and sighs, grabbing his notepad and pen and dropping them into the pocket of his apron. It’s going to be a long fucking night, he’s sure of it.

-

The evening doesn’t start to get interesting until Louis has already been on the clock for six hours.

Nearly every table in the pub is full, though it’s not quite as busy as it usually is. It’s swamped, of course, but tonight the booths aren’t overflowing like they are most nights. It’s relatively quiet, as well, which probably means something happened with the war today.

He doesn’t like to keep up with the news. It’s not because he doesn’t care, it’s because he cares too much. The news makes him cry, especially now when the only stories he hears are of death and destruction and people his age dying in acts of senseless violence.

He’s careful not to ask anyone what’s going on, why all the soldiers look a tad more miserable than usual this evening. He takes orders and delivers food and tries not to pass out, dead tired for having been on his feet all day without pause.

There’s a single table open when Louis goes into the kitchen, table one, but by the time he comes out there’s someone sitting there. The tables in the center of the pub are smaller, with two chairs each, but this soldier appears to be sitting alone. He has a drink in front of him that he’s hunched over, stirring it with his little finger.

Louis has three tables to deliver food to before he can make his way over to the lonely soldier, and he just about drops into the chair across from him when he gets there.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he says tiredly. The soldier looks up at him and Louis spots green eyes, the ones he may have been searching for all night. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Hi,” Harry smiles, sitting up a little. “Where have you been? I’ve come in the past two days, and you haven’t been here,” he says, like Louis doesn’t know.

“My days off,” Louis smiles back, bending his knees a bit to crack them. “Can I get you anything?”

Harry places a small order and Louis sets off, trying not to smile too wide at the thought of Harry coming in here and looking for him. It’s so much nicer to see him without his asshole soldier friends, Louis thinks, and he wishes it wasn’t so busy and maybe that he wasn’t working so they could have a proper chat. Louis thinks Harry probably has a lot of lovely things to say. He’d love to hear them all.

He waits on a few more tables before Harry is ready, and by then, there’s enough of a lull that he thinks he could probably sneak in a quick smoke break. He brings Harry’s plate to him with a smile, placing it down in front of him gingerly.

“Thank you,” Harry says, watching him. “Have you been working long?”

“All day,” Louis smiles tiredly, shaking his head. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m good,” Harry says, glancing down at his food. “Are you the only waiter tonight?”

“Just me,” Louis chuckles, brushing his hair back. He’s sweating just a bit. “Probably going to try and sneak in a quick smoke break, maybe you’ll find your way out back like you always seem to?” he teases.

Harry laughs and blushes a little, popping a fry into his mouth. “I know where to find you.”

“You do,” Louis nods, backing away from the table with a grin and heading back for the kitchen. He swaps his apron out for his pack of cigarettes and all but falls out into the alley, lowering his aching body to the floor against the opposite wall and sighing at the relief.

His back is absolutely killing, as are his feet. He’s dead tired, as well, and he still has about five hours left of his shift.

He takes a cigarette from his pack with slow fingers and places it between his lips, leaning his head back against the wall once it’s lit. He lets his eyes fall closed and breathes in the smoke, blowing it out like he’s afraid of losing it.

It’s no time at all before the door across from him opens, and he smiles as he hears boots step out onto the pavement. He doesn’t open his eyes until Harry clears his throat, peering up at him through his eyelashes.

“What a surprise,” Louis grins, as Harry lowers himself to the ground across from him, their feet nearly touching. “You found me.”

“Told you I would,” Harry chuckles, crossing his legs and leaning his elbows on his knees.

“ _Je suis heureux_ ,” Louis smiles, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

Harry just blinks when Louis blows the smoke in his face, lips twitching like he wants to smile. “Why do you smoke?” he asks curiously, watching him take another drag.

“Stress, _anxiété_ ,” Louis hums. “Lots going on in the world to be anxious about, Harry,” he smiles sadly, putting the cigarette back between his lips.

“Tell me about it,” Harry chuckles bitterly. “Did you hear what happened today?”

Louis flinches, holding the smoke in his lungs for too long before letting it out. Harry must be able to tell that he doesn’t want to hear it, because he falls silent and reaches out for Louis’s cigarette as soon as he takes it out of his mouth.

Louis watches through hooded eyes as Harry raises the cigarette to his lips, going cross eyed as he tries to watch it. Louis lets the smoke filter out of his smiling lips, watching Harry take a drag.

He starts coughing immediately, passing the cigarette back to Louis. Louis erupts with laughter, watching him, and stubs the cigarette out on the pavement beside his knee. 

“That’s horrible,” Harry coughs, fanning his eyes like he’s crying. “The taste, the smell, everything. How do you do that?”

“Started young,” Louis shrugs, opening his pack for a new one but then deciding against it and putting the pack back in his pocket. “It takes getting used to,” he says.

Harry just scoffs and mumbles to himself a bit, and Louis smiles up at the moon. “I should get back to work,” he sighs, but he doesn’t move until Harry gets up and reaches down to help him onto his feet.

“You seem so tired,” Harry frowns, “isn’t there anyone who can cover the last few hours for you?”

“Just me,” Louis smiles, trying to appear perky. “But it is okay, really. There could be worse things I have to do,” he mutters, glancing down at Harry’s uniform.

Harry looks down as well, and then purses his lips. Louis watches his face, suddenly noticing how close they are. Harry is still holding his hand after helping him up, and Louis squeezes his fingers a little to get his attention.

When their eyes meet, the combination of the moon and the yellow lamp over their heads turns Harry’s eyes the most spectacular shade of green, almost like gems. Harry’s lips part and Louis can’t help himself, leaning in and up and kissing him without a second of hesitation.

Harry kisses back just as quickly, dropping Louis’s hand and holding his waist instead. Louis’s hands snake up to Harry’s chest and rest there, flat over his pecs, feeling his heart racing through his thick uniform.

Harry presses him back into the wall and Louis goes easily, his hands travelling up to Harry’s head. There’s not much hair to grip onto so Louis holds the back of his neck, scratching at his hairline until Harry shivers and pulls away.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I laid eyes on you,” Harry breathes, his forehead pressed to Louis’s.

“ _Je souhaite que vous aviez fait plus tôt_ ,” Louis whispers back, “I wish you had done it sooner.”

Harry grins and kisses him again, quickly. “I like when you speak French. I also like when you kiss me. Can we do this again? You speak French and I’ll kiss you?” he chuckles, cheeks pinked from either the cold or the moment.

“ _J’aimerais bien_ , I would love to,” Louis giggles back, pecking Harry’s lips once more. “I really need to get back to work now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry mutters, pulling away and straightening Louis’s shirt for him. “Will you be working tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Louis grins, straightening out Harry’s clothes in return. “I will see you then.”

Harry grins back at him and Louis slips away, hurrying back through the door and throwing his apron on. He’s back out in the dining room doing his rounds by the time Harry slips back through the kitchen door, heading casually back to his table.

Louis finds excuses to visit Harry’s table for the rest of the night, bringing him glasses of water and dessert on the house. Harry stays until Louis has to kick him out at close, and on his way out promises to be back tomorrow.

-

The following night Harry stays even after close, loitering outside the pub until Louis finally gets out.

He’d come around lunchtime with his idiot friends, who berated and abused Louis just as relentlessly as always. He left with them and came back alone for dinner, and this time Louis wasn’t the only waiter working, so they got a bit more time to chat.

Louis really isn’t expecting Harry to still be outside when he finally gets out; it’s cold, and it’s been over and hour since Louis kicked him out so they could start closing. When Louis walks out the door, though, Stan to his left and Jon the cook locking the door behind him, an army uniform catches his eye from across the street and he pauses.

“Lou?” Stan hums, nudging him with his elbow. “Still coming back to mine for drinks?”

“Uh,” Louis mutters, dragging his eyes away from where Harry is straightening up from leaning against a lamppost. “Gonna pass, actually, bit tired,” he lies, glancing over at Stan.

“Alright,” Stan shrugs, already setting off down the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Careful walking home, yeah?”

“Yeah, you too,” Louis calls, waiting until he’s rounded the corner before jogging across the street to where Harry is waiting. “ _Vous êtes encore là_ , you’re still here,” he smiles, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat and watching Harry through his eyelashes.

“Told you I’d wait for you,” Harry shrugs, grinning down at him. 

“ _Tu es fou_ , you are crazy,” Louis laughs, shaking his head. “You must be freezing!”

“Quite, actually,” Harry nods. “Can we go somewhere?”

“My flat,” Louis says, nodding his head down the street. “Come, then.”

Harry has to jog a bit to catch up with him when he sets off down the street, but Harry’s strides are a lot longer and it doesn’t take him very much effort. “Hey,” Harry says, bumping his arm gently.

“Hey,” Louis hums, smiling down at his feet. It’s not snowing yet, but it smells like it’s going to, the air crisp and cold against his face.

“I’m sorry, again, for how the other guys treat you,” Harry says quietly. “They’re so terrible.”

“Terrible,” Louis agrees, accent heavy. “But it’s okay. Their words cannot hurt me,” he says cheerily.

“How are you so positive? I’d be crushed, you know, if anyone knew I was-” he cuts himself off, head snapping around as if to check if anyone’s listening.

“You get used to it,” Louis shrugs. “ _C’est ce que c’est_ , it is what it is.”

They’re quiet for a bit, until they get to Louis’s. The building isn’t very tall, only five stories, and it’s a short walk up the stairs to Louis’s flat on the third floor.

Louis heads straight for the fireplace when they get in, tossing in a few pieces of wood and striking a match to get the place warmed up. It’s always so cold when he comes home, he wishes he could afford electric heat.

Harry explores a bit while Louis heads to the kitchen, making himself a sandwich for his late dinner. It’s nearly midnight now, and he hasn’t eaten since before work.

Harry ends up tending to the fire while Louis eats, which is perfect, because by the time Louis is done the fire is roaring, and Harry looks quite pleased with himself. 

“I’ve never lit a fire in a fireplace before, believe it or not,” he boasts, settling down on the sofa beside Louis. “I come from North Carolina, doesn’t get very cold there.”

“It doesn’t get cold in North Carolina?” Louis frowns. “Doesn’t the north get cold?”

“The north gets cold, yeah,” Harry chuckles, “but North Carolina is in the south. It gets cold, kinda, but not cold enough for a fire,” he explains.

Louis shakes his head, dumbfounded. “ _North_ Carolina is in the _south_?” he blinks.

Harry laughs, his eyes bright. “Never mind. I like your apartment,” he says, gesturing around the living they’re sitting in.

“My who?” Louis frowns again, shaking his head with a sigh. “Enough English. _Peut-on embrasser maintenant_?”

Harry’s face flickers with confusion, but he gets the gist when Louis starts leaning in. Harry grins and kisses him, pressing him back against the sofa. Louis rearranges them slightly so that he’s laying down, Harry sprawled out on top of him, licking nearly down his throat.

Louis’s kissed a lot of guys, of course. Being so flamboyant can help quite a bit with catching men’s attention, and from there coaxing them into bed. Harry seems inexperienced, though, uncomfortable with liking this so much, and Louis smiles against his lips.

“Have you kissed a lot of boys, Harry?” he asks, pulling away from the kiss and fingering at the back of Harry’s uniform, trying to touch skin.

“Not too many,” Harry mutters, sitting up to shrug off his outer jacket and untucking his t-shirt from his trousers so Louis’s wandering fingers can struggle less. “Hard to find boys to kiss in North Carolina.”

“South North Carolina,” Louis muses, slipping his hand up the back of Harry’s shirt and drawing him down again. 

“What about you?” Harry asks, voice getting breathy as Louis’s fingers trail up and down his spine. “Kissed a lot of cute French boys?”

“French boys,” Louis nods, pushing Harry to sit up a bit again so he can slip his hand around to his front, tickling lightly over his ab muscles. “English boys, a Spanish boy, once,” he smiles. “But you’re my first American boy,” he admits.

“I’m honored,” Harry laughs, grabbing Louis’s wrist to pull his hand out of his shirt and pinning it to the sofa instead. “Can I kiss you again now?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Louis grins, eyes fluttering closed as Harry swoops back down. Harry kisses the breath right out of his lungs, and by the time he pulls away Louis can’t keep still.

“ _Chambre, s'il vous plaît, nous allons aller à la chambre à coucher_ ,” he whines, pressing his hips up against Harry’s. He doesn’t feel like translating to English at the moment, hopes Harry can figure it out.

“God, I hope you’re saying bedroom,” Harry breathes, scrambling off the sofa and scooping Louis up into his arms.

They’re kissing again as Harry stumbles around the couch and through the kitchen, nearly depositing Louis into the toilet instead of the bedroom, which is the next door over. They figure it out, eventually, and Louis ends up on his back in his bed, Harry’s body fitting easily between his legs.

Clothes come off without hurry, Harry’s t-shirt first and then the black button down Louis had gone to work in. Harry’s uniform trousers come off with a bit of a struggle, but Louis’s trousers go easy, and then they’re skin to skin with only their pants between them, and Louis scratches lightly at the back of Harry’s neck.

Harry rolls his hips down against Louis’s, their lips still locked. Louis breaks away with a small gasp, dragging his nails down Harry’s back when Harry rolls his hips a little more forcefully.

“ _Baise moi_ ,” he whimpers, hooking his ankles together behind Harry and grinding up against him. “Oh, _s’il vous plaît_.”

Harry looks down at him and rocks his hips again, watching his face. Louis bites his lip and tilts his head back, wondering if Harry can tell how hard he is.

Harry smirks and Louis whines, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Harry, please.”

“In French,” Harry insists, pushing Louis’s arm away from his face. “Say it in French, please.”

“ _S’il vous plaît_ ,” Louis rushes, lifting his hips easily for Harry to slide his pants off. “ _S’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît, s’il vous_ -”

Harry sinks down and wraps his mouth around his cock, successfully silencing Louis’s voice. He licks experimentally at Louis’s head a few times and then looks up at him expectantly, and Louis’s mouth kicks back into action.

“ _Il se sent si bon, Harry, s'il vous plaît, plus_ ,” he moans, reaching down to rub his hand over Harry’s hair. It’s just barely long enough for Louis to lock his fingers in. “ _Je veux que tu me fasses- merde, Harry_!”

Harry sucks him down halfway, _hard_ , bobbing his head quickly. He’s inexperienced, but he’s good, and all Louis can do is whine. “ _S’il vous plaît_ , Harry, please,” he breathes.

Harry moans softly around him and pulls off, even as Louis tries as hard as he can to push him back down. He kisses up Louis’s stomach and wraps his hand around Louis’s wet cock, Louis’s eyes rolling back in his head.

“ _Ne vous arrêtez pas_ ,” Louis pants, fucking up into Harry’s hand. “Harry, please, don’t stop.”

“Come for me, sweetheart,” Harry hums, voice deep and vibrating through Louis’s entire being. “Let me see.”

It takes another minute and a few more slow, torturous strokes of Harry’s fist before he lets go, shaking as he comes all over Harry’s hand. He turns his head to bite into his pillow and rolls his hips into Harry’s hand until he’s done, whining soft and high.

“ _Merci_ ,” he breathes, melting into the bed as Harry climbs back up on top of him, kissing him thoroughly. Harry fucks quickly against his leg, kissing at his neck and grunting softly in his ear.

“ _Vous êtes si bon, m'a fait sentir si bien_ ,” Louis purrs, sliding his hand down Harry’s back to get a handful of his arse. “ _Tu es tellement adorable_ , Harry, come for me, love,” he breathes, slipping his hand inside Harry’s pants and digging his nails into his skin.

Harry comes with a yelp, soaking through his pants and biting into Louis’s neck. Louis cries out but it only seems to spur Harry on, his hips moving wildly until finally he seems to calm down.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, settling heavily on top of Louis. Louis is only a little bit squished.

“Maybe next time you can actually get it in me,” Louis giggles, “or at least out of your pants.”

Harry laughs, but he’s blushing when he picks his head up. “Didn’t hear you complaining, sweetheart.”

“Mm, I suppose it was okay,” Louis teases, scratching at Harry’s scalp to lure him up into a kiss. “Can you stay?”

“I should get back,” Harry winces, glancing at the clock on Louis’s bedroom wall. “You mentioned a next time, though?” he asks hopefully.

“Next time, American boy,” Louis grins, pushing Harry off of him. “I better see you in the pub tomorrow.”

“Oh, you will,” Harry smiles, getting up and reaching for his uniform trousers. “Um, mind if I steal a pair of boxers? Mine are a bit gross,” he says, cheeks flushing.

“Top drawer of the, um,” Louis waves his hand uselessly at his dresser, “can’t think. Lock the door on your way out, please,” he mumbles.

Harry quietly goes about changing out of his pants and back into his uniform, and when Louis is just about asleep, he leans over and pecks his cheek gently.

“Thank you for this,” he whispers. “This was nice.”

“Mm,” Louis hums, smiling sleepily. “ _Au revoir_ , American Harry.”

Harry chuckles quietly and kisses at the shell of Louis’s ear, pulling the covers up and over him. He sneaks out without another word; Louis can hear him tend to the fire a bit, and then hears the lock click when he finally lets himself out.

He falls asleep quickly, warm and sated and happy and only a little bit lonely.

-

When Harry shows up to the pub the following evening, he’s with his whole group of idiots and Louis has only been working for an hour. He has a short shift today; he got to skip the lunch rush altogether, and he’s not even staying until close. They’ve been looking to hire new waiters the past few weeks and now that they have, Louis’s life gets a little bit easier.

Harry and the other soldiers take their usual booth, table eleven, and Louis doesn’t even notice them until a few minutes after they’ve walked in. The pub is especially busy tonight, raucous soldiers demanding things left and right, but Louis has two other waiters to help him out tonight and things are going smoothly, for the most part, until Louis gets to table eleven.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he greets, trying not to pull a face when he recognizes the group of soldiers. He can feel Harry’s eyes boring into him, but he pays him no mind yet. “Are you ready to order?”

The obnoxious soldiers keep their comments to a minimum tonight, which is appreciated, and Louis manages to get all of their orders down without wanting to actually murder anyone. He’s sent away with a pat on the bum from the gray eyed dickhead that always sits on the outside of the booth, but a voice catches his attention before he gets far.

“Excuse me?”

Louis turns around, eyes falling on Harry’s. “ _Oui_?” Louis hums, cocking his hip casually.

“Could you point me in the direction of the bathroom?” Harry asks innocently, climbing over a couple of his friends and out of the booth.

“Far corner,” Louis says, trying not to smirk when Harry leans in too close, like he can’t hear. “There’s a sign, you can’t miss it.”

Harry squints across the pub, shaking his head. “Sorry, could you lead me? Bit dark in here,” he shrugs. He’s grinning; he’s lucky his back is to the table.

“No problem,” Louis mutters, turning on his heel and marching across the pub. Harry hurries to keep up with him, nearly plowing him over when Louis stops in front of the restroom door.

“This it?” Harry asks dumbly, pointing at the door. 

“That’s it,” Louis chuckles, rapping quickly on the door for him. “Single stall, sounds like no one’s in there,” he says, making to walk away. “Have fun-”

Harry grabs his arm before he can walk away, effectively turning him around. “Could you come in and just show me how the door locks? Quickly?” he says, looking a little bit desperate. 

Louis rolls his eyes and opens the door, pushing Harry inside. He closes the door after them, reaching down for the latch.

“You just push this over, like-”

He’s cut off when Harry grabs his face, crashing their lips together. Louis can’t believe he didn’t catch on sooner, letting go of the door handle and grabbing at Harry’s hips.

“God,” Harry breathes, sliding his hands down to grip Louis’s arse, “Richards is such a dick. He’s so awful to you, I don’t even know why, and when he touches you like that, I could-”

Louis hushes him with another kiss, pushing his arse back into Harry’s hands, smiling a bit when he grips tighter. As nice as it is to finally have a name for the gray eyed soldier, he doesn’t really want to be talking about him at a time like this.

“I’m out of here in three hours,” he mutters, snaking his hands up Harry’s chest, playing with the dog tags around his neck. “Come back for me? Or wait at my flat?” he suggests, smirking up at Harry.

Harry nods quickly, pulling Louis forward until their hips are flush. “I’ll come back. I’ll wait where I was last night, across the street,” he hums, kissing Louis’s lips a few times, chastely. 

“ _Parfait_ ,” Louis giggles, leaning back so Harry can’t reach his lips.

“Parfait?” Harry frowns, moving his hands up to Louis’s lower back lest he topple over. “Like, yogurt?”

“What?” Louis laughs, shaking his head. “No. _Parfait_ , perfect. As in perfect, I will see you then,” he explains, speaking to Harry’s lips.

“Oh,” Harry grins, leaning in to kiss him once more. “Gotcha. _Parfait_. You are _parfait_ ,” he says, looking quite pleased with himself. 

“ _Tu es un idiot_ ,” Louis laughs, pushing Harry away and straightening up.

“Hey!” Harry pouts. “I know what that means!”

Louis grins and blows him a kiss, smoothing out his shirt and pulling up his trousers a bit. “I will see you later,” he assures, winking in Harry’s direction before slipping out the door.

He heads back to the kitchen to put in the order for Harry’s table, and then heads back out to resume taking orders. Harry is just sitting back down at his table and Louis dutifully does not pay attention to him, even though he can feel Harry’s eyes boring holes into his back.

He almost forgets Harry is even there until he’s called over to his table a while later.

“Hey, fairy!” Richards, Louis now knows, calls. “Gay boy, over here!” He’s spectacularly drunk, which is nothing new, and Louis shuffles over to the table with heavy feet.

“ _Oui_?” he says tiredly, holding his tray against his hip.

“Styles has somethin’ he wants to say to you,” Richard sneers, nodding over at Harry. “Spit it out, boy.”

Harry’s beet red, but he looks more annoyed than anything. “Richards, I told you-”

“I told _you_ , Styles,” Richards grunts, kicking out at Harry under the table. “Say it, or you’re gay.”

“That’s not how it-”

“ _Say it_ , or you’re fucking gay!”

Harry looks pained when he looks up at Louis, and Louis tries not to let his apprehension show in his eyes.

“You’re a faggot,” Harry mutters, dropping his eyes before the words are even all the way out of his mouth.

Louis blinks, resolutely keeping his face straight to hide how his chest is aching, suddenly.

“ _Est-ce tout_? Is that all?” Louis snips, looking back at Richards and determinedly not at Harry. 

“That’s all, princess,” Richards waves him off, roaring with laughter.

Louis turns quickly on his heel and marches back to the kitchen, throwing the orders at Jon and grabbing his pack of cigarettes out of his bag on his way out to the alley.

Part of him, most of him, is hurt. He understands that Harry didn’t have a choice, that he didn’t want to say those words, but he had to. He shrinks himself into the corner between the alley and the dumpster and smokes through three cigarettes, half hoping that Harry will come find him and half hoping that he won’t.

The thing is, words don’t usually hurt him. There’s something, though, some selfish bit of his brain that hates that Harry protected himself over Louis.

He pulls himself together in record time and gets back inside, telling himself that he’s just being a diva. He knows Harry didn’t want to hurt him, and that if he hadn’t done it, he would be in a world more pain than Louis is now.

He exchanges his cigarettes for his notebook and heads back to the dining room, making a lap around the pub and checking in. Harry looks close to tears when Louis stops by his table to deliver their food, and Louis just smiles at him softly. He’s off again before anyone can make any crude comments, and he’s sure to give table eleven a wide berth for the rest of his shift.

Harry’s group leaves while Louis’s in the kitchen, but Louis can’t say he’s sad to have missed them. His stomach twists with a weird sort of nerves when he thinks about seeing Harry in just under an hour now, but he pushes it out of his head.

By the time the clock strikes nine, Louis has gotten two drinks spilled on him, got called a fairy by three more sneering soldiers, and been pinched approximately six times. He wants to go home and have a cup of tea, and maybe a dick in his arse.

Harry’s leaning against the lightpost across the street when Louis finally leaves the pub, and he straightens up as soon as he sees him. Louis puts his head down and hurries across the street, walking straight into Harry’s chest and pressing his face into his uniform.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry gushes, holding him like no one can see them. It’s dark, and the street is mostly empty. Louis hates that it would be different under other circumstances.

“It’s okay,” Louis mutters, pressing a little closer.

“No, it’s not,” Harry sighs, rubbing his back. Louis is shaking even in his coat. “I feel like shit. I just… They can’t know, you know? My life will be so fucking hard if they know,” he says, sounding close to tears.

“I know,” Louis says, pulling away and looking up at him. “I know how that feels.”

“Shit, Lou,” Harry breathes, thumbing over his cheek. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry it has to be like this, any of it.”

“It could be worse,” Louis mumbles, shrugging one shoulder. “ _Ça pourrait être pire_.”

Harry falls quiet, watching him. Louis watches him back.

“Let’s go,” Harry says, finally. “It’s cold.”

Louis leads the way wordlessly, shuffling down the street with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his ratty coat, Harry shuffling along beside him. They don’t speak again until they’re inside Louis’s flat, and Harry tries to kiss him against the door.

“ _Je veux du thé_ ,” Louis mutters, too tired to translate. “ _Ça a été une journée horrible. Je dois le thé._ ”

“I can’t understand you,” Harry frowns, trailing along behind him to the kitchen. “Is that on purpose?”

Louis reaches into the cupboard to the left of the stove, pulling out a box of tea. He holds it up for Harry to see, and Harry nods.

“ _Vous voulez un peu_?” Louis asks, gesturing like he’s going to give the box to Harry.

“Yes, please,” Harry hums, and Louis turns around to put the kettle on.

Harry sits down at the table and after a moment, Louis joins him. He drags his chair around the table to be closer to Harry, plopping down and resting his head on Harry’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Harry breathes, wrapping his arm around him. Louis reaches down to take his free hand, playing with his long fingers. “You seemed so perky earlier, when I got to the pub,” he observes, watching Louis’s hand play with his own. “But you’re not anymore. Is it because of me? What they made me say?” he worries.

“No,” Louis chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just-” he sighs, pursing his lips. “It gets to me, the name calling and the pinching and the harassing. Pain in my throat,” he mutters.

“Pain in my neck,” Harry laughs softly, hugging him close. “The expression is pain in my neck.”

“Sure,” Louis shrugs, sitting up. “ _Je parle comme une vache espagnole_ ,” he laughs, getting up to check the kettle.

Harry, clueless as he is, laughs along with him. He seems relieved to see Louis smiling, which makes Louis a bit warm inside.

“ _Thé_ ,” he hums, setting a mug down in front of Harry with a tea bag draped over the side. “ _Lait? Miel_?” he hums, digging through the fridge.

“Um,” Harry frowns, looking down at his tea. “Milk? Honey?”

Louis laughs again and shakes his head, grabbing the milk from the fridge and the honey from the worktop. “ _Lait,_ ,” he says, placing the milk down, “ _miel_ ,” the honey.

“Oh,” Harry laughs, blushing a bit. “I told you, I don’t know any French!”

“You come to France, without a word of French,” Louis grins, sitting down with his own mug. “Did they teach you nothing in your fancy American schools?”

“I took Spanish,” Harry winces. “Truly and honestly, I thought I would never need to know French.”

“Ah, español,” Louis hums, “let’s hear it.”

Harry looks vaguely terrified, sipping slowly at his tea. “Um, hola?”

“ _Horrible_ ,” Louis says, in a perfect Spanish accent. “ _¿Hay algo que usted conoce_?”

“That’s not fucking fair,” Harry whines, pouting his pretty lips. “You can’t know two languages!”

“Four, actually,” Louis grins. “French, obviously, English, Spanish, and a bit of German.”

“Fuck you,” Harry grunts, sipping moodily at his tea. “Not fair.”

“Maybe I could teach you,” Louis suggests. “Are you good at learning?”

“Not exactly,” Harry chuckles, putting his mug down and glancing over Louis’s body. “Maybe we can just stick to sex?”

“Ah, sex,” Louis grins, taking a long sip from his tea. “The universal language of love.”

“That’s a language I can speak,” Harry smirks, turning in his chair to face Louis. “Can we move this to the bedroom now? Please?”

“I haven’t finished my tea,” Louis pouts, looking forlornly at his mug.

“I’ll give you something better,” Harry winks, standing up and taking Louis’s mug from him, putting it down on the table. He grabs Louis’s hand, pulling him gingerly up and through the door to his bedroom.

“You’ll make me another cup later,” Louis mutters, even as Harry pushes him down on the bed and climbs up on top of him.

“Of course, babe,” Harry says disinterestedly, leaning in to kiss down Louis’s neck. “What do you want?”

“My tea,” Louis sighs.

“Louis!” Harry laughs, pulling away and shaking his head. 

“Sorry,” Louis giggles, reaching up for him. “Want you.”

“Mm, vague,” Harry says, nipping at Louis’s chin. “How about I open you up with my tongue, and when I’m done you can ride me?”

“ _Oh mon Dieu_ ,” Louis whines softly, arching up into Harry. “Strong, for a closeted boy.”

“I’ve had my share of trials,” Harry winks, unbuttoning the top few buttons on Louis’s shirt. He kisses the skin as it’s exposed to him, and Louis melts back into the bed.

“Lucky me,” Louis hums, as Harry nudges his nose just below his sternum and sucks gently at the skin.

Harry takes his time with Louis’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulders once he’s done with the buttons but making no move to pull it out from under Louis’s back. He moves on to his trousers next, popping the button and nipping at the skin he reveals to himself.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, reaching down to poke at his cheek. 

“Mm, patience,” Harry mutters, slapping his hand away. “It’ll be more fun if I take my time, trust me,” he smirks.

“Fun for who?” Louis huffs, bringing his hand back to card his fingers through the longest bit of Harry’s hair. 

“Shush,” Harry rolls his eyes, but he pulls Louis’s trousers down and off a moment later.

It’s kinda hot, Louis thinks, how he’s now naked aside from his pants and Harry is still in his full uniform. Louis’s never had a particular thing for a man in a uniform, but Harry looks so formal and Louis knows he’s probably about to wreck him to within an inch of his life.

Harry gets up on his knees and shrugs his jacket off, leaving him in just his white undershirt and uniform trousers. He pats Louis’s hip to get him to turn over, tossing Louis’s shirt over the side of the bed while he’s at it.

“You look so good,” Harry hums, running a hand down Louis’s spine. Louis folds his arms under his pillow and turns to look back at him, cheek resting on his forearm.

“ _Dépêchez-vous_ ,” Louis pleads, wiggling his bum a bit at Harry. “Hurry up. We don’t have all night.”

“Don’t we?” Harry smirks, grabbing a handful of Louis’s arse and massaging it firmly. “You got other plans?”

“Got a hot date with this bed,” Louis mutters, nuzzling against his pillow. “Which might start early if you don’t soon-”

He cuts off with a gasp when Harry leans down, burying his face between his cheeks. Louis’s pants are still on but he can feel Harry’s hot breath against his hole, making his toes curl against the bed.

Harry just hums quietly, like he’s pleased with himself, and pulls away. He pulls Louis’s pants about halfway down his thighs, leaving him somewhat restricted, and leans back in.

He licks around Louis’s hole, smirking at the way Louis twitches. This is probably one of Louis’s favorite things, but he hardly ever finds someone willing to do it for him. He tries to spread his legs a little more but his pants keep them mostly where they are, and Harry chuckles against him.

“Eager,” Harry comments, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Louis’s hole.

“Well, you’re taking so damn long-”

Harry cuts him off with his tongue plunging into him this time, going hard and fast right off the bat. Louis turns his face into the pillow and whines, pushing his hips back needily. Harry grabs at his hips and presses him down, licking in deep and sucking at his hole.

“ _Oh, mon Dieu_ ,” Louis moans, as Harry’s tongue flattens out inside him. “Harry, _merde, ne vous arrêtez pas_ ,” he pants, voice muffled by the pillow under him.

Harry just moans against him and works his jaw, using his massive, slightly rough hands to spread Louis’s cheeks. Louis just trembles, sobbing into his pillow, as Harry licks and sucks and nips until Louis’s dick is so hard it hurts and he’s begging for more.

“You sound so hot when you beg in French,” Harry says, finally pulling away. Louis melts into the mattress a bit, taking the opportunity to try and catch his breath.

“ _Merci_ ,” Louis says softly, voice already wrecked. Harry shivers behind him and gently turns him over, tracing two fingers around his hole.

“Do you have condoms?” Harry asks, dipping just the tip of his finger into Louis’s spit slick hole. “Lube?”

Louis points vaguely toward his bedside table, and Harry leans over him to reach for it. He doesn’t know when Harry lost his shirt, but doesn’t think too hard about it, choosing instead to just admire the view. He attaches himself to the nipple that happens to be just above his face, startling a moan out of Harry.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, dropping the bottle in his hand onto the bed and cradling Louis’s head. “Lou.”

Louis just hums quietly, scraping his teeth over Harry’s nipple. Harry’s hips jerk a bit against Louis’s and he grins, sucking hard one more time before popping off.

Harry takes a second to regain his composure and then grabs the bottle of lube again, sitting up and settling between Louis’s legs. He spreads some lube over his fingers and reaches down to make sure Louis is thoroughly ready, fucking him with no sense of urgency whatsoever.

Louis reaches out to touch him, running his hand up his bicep and across his shoulder. Harry looks up and smiles at him, crooking his fingers just right. Louis writhes, nails digging into Harry’s shoulder, and Harry pulls his fingers out.

“Ready?” Harry mutters, climbing off the bed to shuck his trousers off, finally. Louis grabs the condom Harry left next to his head and tears it open, beckoning Harry closer.

Harry knees over beside Louis’s hip, and Louis lazy rolls the condom over his dick. He gives him a few little strokes for good measure and Harry sighs gently, moving away once Louis drops his hand.

Louis leans his head back and closes his eyes while Harry settles between his legs again, letting Harry manhandle him into whichever position he wants. He curls his fists into the bedsheets and moans as Harry starts to sink in, arching up into the kisses Harry is peppering over his chest.

“ _Oh, mon Dieu_ ,” Louis whimpers, hooking his ankles behind Harry’s back and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Harry starts fucking him hard and fast, pushing Louis up the bed a bit with every thrust.

Harry catches his lips in a bruising kiss, pressing him down into the bed with the force of it. Louis whines and squeals into his mouth as Harry hunts for his sweet spot, biting down hard on his lip once he’s found it.

Harry moans, half in pain and half in pleasure, and fucks him a little harder. They keep going like that until Louis is restless, squirming out of control, and Harry rolls them over easily.

It takes Louis a moment to find his bearings, confused with the sudden switch of positions. He bends his knees into a more comfortable position and plants his hands on Harry’s chest, rocking his hips slowly to start.

“C’mon,” Harry grunts, grabbing at his hips. “Move.”

“Who’s impatient now, hm?” Louis grins, slowing down just a little bit more. He loves having the upperhand like this, even when he’s the one with the cock in his arse. Watching Harry whine and squirm is quite fun, until Louis starts to get bored.

He sits up more fully and bounces, hands on his own thighs. His body is trembling but he doesn’t mind it, smiling as his hair flops into his face. He twists his hips around until Harry’s cock starts hitting his prostate on every bounce, and his body curls forward instinctively.

Harry wraps his arms around Louis’s trembling frame and fucks up into him relentlessly, hitting his spot over and over. Louis, curled mostly into a ball on Harry’s chest, can only take a few moments more before he comes, cock shooting all over Harry’s stomach and his own.

Harry fucks him through it, and then some, rolling them back over. Louis is oversensitive and there might even be tears in his eyes but Harry continues pounding into him, sloppy, chasing his own release. Finally, just when Louis thinks he can’t take any more, Harry comes, burying himself deep inside of Louis and filling up the condom.

“Fuck,” he moans, voice deep, forcing a shiver out of Louis. He stays buried until Louis starts to whimper, and finally he pushes himself up and pulls out.

Louis curls up uselessly as Harry climbs out of bed, getting rid of the condom and grabbing Louis’s shirt off the floor. He cleans them both up with it, tossing it back where he got it when he’s done and climbing back into bed, cuddling up behind Louis.

“ _Vas te faire encule_ ,” Louis says half heartedly. “That’s my work shirt, I need that.”

“It’s filthy, anyway,” Harry reasons, nuzzling his face into the back of Louis’s neck. “What did you say just then, in French? It sounded so pretty.”

“Fuck you, I said,” Louis chuckles, heart fluttering at Harry’s surprised bark of laughter. “ _Vas te faire encule_ , fuck you,” he hums.

“ _Vas te faire encule_ ,” Harry hums back, sounding amused and very American. “I like it.”

“You would,” Louis laughs quietly, pressing back against his chest and pulling the covers up over them. “Now, shh, sleep time,” he mutters, holding onto the hand that Harry drapes over his chest.

“Uh,” Harry says, sounding awkward suddenly. “Lou, I can’t sleep, babe. I have to go,” he winces, looking apologetic when Louis turns around.

“Why?” Louis whines, turning over to face him. “They won’t miss you for one night, will they?”

“Yeah, I have to go,” Harry says softly, rubbing his hand up and down Louis’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Mph,” Louis grunts, cuddling into Harry’s chest. “But you are so warm, and this place is so cold,” he complains. “Just a nap?”

“I shouldn’t,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to Louis’s forehead. “I’m sorry, I really am.”

He starts to pull away, but Louis grabs at him. “Wait, no. Just stay until I fall asleep? Please?” he begs. He feels a bit silly, but the idea of Harry leaving makes him want to cry.

“Okay, alright,” Harry chuckles, settling back down. “If I fall asleep here I’m sending the American army after you, though,” he threatens.

“ _Je suis terrifié_ ,” Louis yawns, snuggling close. “Shaking in my boots.”

Harry laughs quietly, and buries his fingers in Louis’s hair. Louis falls asleep quickly with Harry massaging his head so tenderly, and when he wakes up the following morning, Harry is long gone.

-

The Americans stay throughout the winter. They haven’t been called into battle yet, and they haven’t had anything to do, so Louis has seen much more of them at his pub than he ever cared to.

Having them around through the winter, though, means that Louis has a boy in his bed nearly every night, one that stays until he falls asleep and leaves the bed cold and empty in the morning. He’s quite fond of Harry at this point, but he knows he can’t let himself get too close.

The thing is that with every passing day, Louis knows they’re one day closer to being separated. No one has discovered them yet, but there’s always the chance that they’ll be found out, and Louis can’t bare to think about that. Worse, though, will be when Harry inevitably does get called into battle, and there’s a chance Louis will never see him again.

But he doesn’t let himself think like that, especially not like this, pressed up against the wall of his own shower in the middle of the night getting pounded so hard his knees are about to give.

Harry reaches around him and pinches his nipple, sending Louis’s entire body into a fit of trembles. The warm water raining down on his head is making it a bit hard to breathe, and he’s so fucking close, he just needs Harry to-

Harry reaches down and grabs at his cock, jerking him hard and fast. Louis screams and comes, spluttering under the water, quaking in Harry’s arms. Harry comes just a second later, deep inside his arse, and then hops out of the shower quickly to get rid of the condom.

Louis lowers himself to his knees and then his arse, leaning back against the wall. Like this the water hits his chest, rinsing away the bits of come that have stuck to his stomach.

Harry comes back a moment later and laughs at him, sits down across from him and tangles their legs. Louis grins and leans his head back, breathing in the steam from the hot shower.

“You look like a little sex pixie,” Harry comments, nudging his toe against the inside of Louis’s thigh. “Completely fucked out, yet still completely fuckable.”

“If you touch my arse again, Styles, I’ll kick you all the way back to South North Carolina,” Louis mutters, head flopping down to rest on his own shoulder as he gazes playfully at Harry.

“You know it’s just called North Carolina,” Harry giggles, his foot creeping closer to Louis’s crotch.

“I don’t care what the hell it’s called,” Louis grumbles, pushing Harry’s foot away. “Get your mangey toes away from my cock.”

“They’re not mangey!” Harry argues, pulling his foot up to his face to examine it. “They’re cute, I think.”

“Don’t tell me you have a foot fetish,” Louis laughs, “we’ll have to call this whole thing off.”

“Shut up,” Harry grins, kicking him gently. “I don’t have a foot fetish.”

“Good,” Louis hums, flopping his head to the other side. “I’m turning into a raisin.”

“A cute raisin,” Harry comments, but he stands up and turns the water off. “Up with you, then.”

“Do you have a raisin fetish?” Louis wonders, allowing Harry to heave him to his feet. “Can people have raisin fetishes?”

“People can have whatever fetishes they want,” Harry says, helping Louis out of the shower and wrapping him a towel. “I think I have a you fetish.”

“A me fetish?” Louis giggles, shuffling out of the bathroom and around the corner to his bedroom. “I like that fetish.”

Harry laughs and follows him, pulling on the pants he discarded in here earlier. “You’ve ruined me for any other man,” he sighs wistfully. 

“Good,” Louis grins, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and hugging him tight. Harry hugs him back, both their towels lost, and Louis digs his face into Harry’s chest. “Are you going to leave now?” he asks quietly, peeking up at Harry from under his wet hair.

Harry frowns, running his fingers through Louis’s hair to push it back. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

Louis sighs, dropping his arms and stepping back. Harry looks really, very sorry, but Louis just shrugs. “It’s okay,” he hums. “I get it.”

“I’d love to stay the night, Lou,” Harry assures, closing the distance again and playing with Louis’s hair. “Trust me, waking up beside you would be the best thing ever, probably,” he smirks, eyes flicking down Louis’s body.

“But they’ll ask questions,” Louis finishes for him, stepping back again. “And they can’t ask questions, because they can’t know.”

Harry groans, sitting down on the corner of Louis’s bed. “Lou-”

“No,” Louis cuts him off, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s the world’s fault,” he mutters, finding a pair of sleep pants in his dresser and pulling them on.

“Sorry,” Harry says anyway, catching Louis’s hand as he walks past. “On the world’s behalf.”

Louis grins and pulls his hand out of Harry’s, pushing him over backwards on the bed and climbing up on top of him. He kisses him almost viciously, holding Harry’s wrists down to the mattress when Harry tries to pull him off.

“Lou,” he mutters, turning his head away. He’s smiling, eyes twinkling. “I can’t.”

“C’mon,” Louis whines, ignoring the way Harry’s eyes twinkle a little harder at Louis’s use of his American slang. “I changed my mind, one more go.”

“Lou, seriously, I can’t,” Harry laughs, sitting up. “I’ve been coming back later and later every time I come here. They’re gonna start asking questions.”

Louis sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s still perched in Harry’s lap, which is probably the only reason why Harry isn’t already dressed and out the door. “Tell them I’m some lovely French girl,” he says, straightening up and sticking his chest out. “Massive knockers, long dark hair.”

Harry just laughs again, wrapping his arms around him and wrestling him onto the bed, effectively switching their positions. “I have to go,” he says, pecking Louis’s lips once before standing up and collecting the rest of his clothes.

Louis whines dramatically, spreading himself out on the bed. He pulls the waistband of his sleep pants down just enough to show the top of his groin, and Harry shakes his head.

“Not gonna work, dear,” he says softly, patting Louis’s inner thigh. He’s already dressed, ready to go. “I have to go.”

Louis pouts and sits up, folding his legs in front of him. It’s not even really the sex he wants, at this point. He doesn’t know if it’s just the comfort of having another person there when he falls asleep or if it’s specifically Harry, but he doesn’t like to think about the latter. Harry could be gone any day now, and Louis doesn’t like the idea of falling for someone who might not come back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Harry hums, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “What’s your shift tomorrow?”

“‘M off after the dinner rush,” Louis mumbles, watching Harry’s hands as he collects his things. “Nine, or so.”

“Perfect,” Harry grins, but he pouts when he looks at Louis’s face. “Lou-”

“Just go,” Louis sighs, shifting up the bed and maneuvering the covers over himself. “I’ll get over it.”

Harry looks him over for another moment and then turns around, sulking quietly out of the flat. Louis lies down and cuddles up to his extra pillow, staring into the dark. He tries to listen for the war, even though he knows it’s nowhere near his village. It seems so far away, like it isn’t even real. Maybe it isn’t, maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and this all will have been a dream.

-

The war is real.

Louis knows the war is real, because when he gets to work after the lunch rush the following day, it’s never been so silent. Everyone looks miserable, and it makes Louis feel a bit miserable, but he tries to be as perky as he can to act like this isn’t happening, like something horrible didn’t happen last night or this morning or moments ago or _something_. 

Harry comes in late, around seven. He doesn’t order food, sits at table one in the corner by himself and has drink after drink after drink. Louis tries to talk to him, but he doesn’t seem much for talking, so Louis stuffs his heart back down in his chest where it doesn’t want to stay and carries on.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” he asks again, for probably the twentieth time tonight. It’s nearly nine, and the dinner rush is over, but Harry doesn’t seem eager to get out of here.

“No,” Harry says simply, staring at Louis’s chest and tipping his beer back. He downs the rest of the bottle and puts it down on the table, standing up shakily to go back to the bar. Louis just watches him, frowning, and picks up the bottle. He thinks this is ten, maybe even eleven, and Harry’s absolutely wasted. Louis usually doesn’t like to know what’s happened with the war, but tonight he’s itching to know what’s got Harry so out of sorts.

He brings Harry’s empty bottle back to the kitchen and disposes of it, checking the time on the clock next to the door. It’s just past nine, which means his shift is just about over, which means maybe he can get Harry home and try to figure out what’s going on.

He yells to make sure everyone knows he’s done and slips his apron off, stuffing it in his bag and pushing out into the dining room. There’s hardly anyone left, which is so unusual, and when Louis drops himself into the seat across from Harry’s, Harry hardly blinks.

“Hey,” Louis says, but still Harry doesn’t move. “You wanna get out of here?”

Harry’s eyes find his slowly, and he nods. He looks fucking devastated. Louis wants to cry.

He stands up and Harry follows his lead, albeit shakily. Louis reaches out to support him and Harry falls into him easily, letting himself be lead out into the cool night air.

It’s nearly spring now, which is nice. The winter was absolutely brutal, so to be outside with only a light jacket over his shoulders has Louis feeling more alive than he has in months. Harry doesn’t seem to be feeling the same, moaning quietly in discontent as Louis leads him down the street.

They get some funny looks, but Louis doesn’t much care. He leads Harry straight to the bedroom when they get to his flat and helps him onto the bed, breathing heavy from the exertion. 

“ _Jésus, pourquoi avez-vous tellement ivre_?” he huffs, shrugging off his jacket. “Why are you so drunk?” he asks again, seeing Harry’s confused pout.

“Dunno,” Harry slurs, eyes catching on Louis’s collarbone. “Wanna fuck you,” he mutters, reaching out for Louis’s hips.

“Harry,” Louis shakes his head, “you are far too drunk. How about I get you some water, yeah?”

“No,” Harry says gruffly, reaching out again and actually catching Louis’s hips this time. “Please,” he says, softer, staring up at Louis’s face.

Louis watches him for a moment, staring into his eyes. Harry looks seconds away from shattering.

“One glass of water,” Louis reasons, holding up one finger. He’s almost surprised to find that it’s shaking. “And then you can fuck me.”

“No,” Harry says again, suddenly desperate. He pulls Louis down onto the bed and rolls on top of him, holding his wrists down. “Just, let me- please, I need-” he’s stumbling, grunting like he’s in pain, and Louis breathes very slowly.

“Alright,” he says finally, body going slack. “Alright, okay.”

Harry goes for the buttons on his shirt and ends up ripping a few off in his haste, getting Louis out of it in record time. He bites down on the center of Louis’s chest and Louis cries out, hands going to Harry’s hair. Harry pulls him off and goes for Louis’s trousers, nearly taking Louis’s whole leg with them. He gets his own clothes off with the same haste, throwing his jacket clear across the room.

“Harry, slow down,” Louis soothes, but Harry can’t even hear him, his breathing loud and shaky and tortured. He fumbles for the lube in Louis’s bedside, messily pouring it over his fingers. About half the bottle dumps over Louis’s stomach but Harry doesn’t even notice, getting a finger inside him and fucking him quickly.

Louis whimpers, back arching a little. “Harry,” he tries, grabbing at his bicep. “Please-”

Harry cuts him off with another finger in his hole, scissoring them harshly. Louis chokes on a sob and Harry fucks him a little harder, pushing him up the bed with the force of it. Louis has tears in his eyes already, but he’s wishing for his sweet, gentle Harry back.

Harry pulls his fingers out and slicks up his cock, and Louis braces himself. He knows this is going to hurt, he’s not nearly prepped enough, but Harry doesn’t care. He pushes in with all the intensity left in his body, and then collapses on top of Louis.

Louis pants quickly, trying to catch his breath. He pushes at Harry’s hip, trying to get him to move or get off or something, he doesn’t even know. “Harry-”

Harry pushes himself up on his arms and gets to work, fucking Louis hard and quick and mercilessly. It’s relentless, the force of his hips, and Louis is hard but he has no idea why. Harry hammers into him, grunting so loud he’s nearly yelling with the effort of his thrusts, and Louis is outright sobbing.

“Harry,” he cries, clutching desperately at his biceps, squirming under him. “ _Arrêtez, arrêtez, s'il vous plaît, laissez-moi respirer_ ,” he begs, his breaths coming in short, pained little gasps.

Harry gets a hand around Louis’s cock and jacks him quickly, moaning and grunting into Louis’s neck. Louis gives up and moans loudly, helpless to the pleasure. He tenses up slowly, Harry’s cock fucking his orgasm out of him too soon, it barely even feels good. Harry comes hardly a second later, digging his nails into Louis’s hip and coming deep inside him.

Louis sighs gratefully when Harry finally collapses, reaching up to hug him. He feels like shit, like he kind of wants Harry to fuck off and never come back, but also like he kind of wants to wrap him up in a blanket and protect him from whatever’s doing this to him. 

It takes a full minute before Louis notices that Harry is crying into his neck. Louis rolls him onto his side and looks at Harry’s face, finding his eyes screwed shut and his body trembling.

“Hey,” Louis whispers, wiping a tear from his cheek. “ _Ouvre tes yeux_ , look at me,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Harry sobs suddenly, prying his eyes open. “Oh, god, what did I just do-”

“Shh,” Louis shakes his head, pulling Harry into his arms. “It’s okay. Please tell me what’s going on?”

Harry cries a little harder, shuddering into Louis’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” he sobs, clawing desperately at Louis’s back.

Louis stays quiet for a moment, lets Harry cry. He’s absolutely pitiful, drunk and crying and heaving into Louis’s chest.

“I’m going tomorrow,” he says eventually, his voice tiny. His cries have somewhat calmed, but he’s still trembling. “To battle. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

Louis’s heart sinks all the way to his toes. He wants to cry, as well, but he doesn’t. He hugs Harry a little tighter, pressing his face into his hair. “It’s okay,” Louis breathes, petting at the short curls at the back of his head. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m so scared,” Harry chokes, trembling a little harder. “Louis, I’m so scared.”

“Shh,” Louis soothes, scratching at his scalp. “I know you are.”

“I hurt you,” Harry cries, starting to get worked up again. “God, I’m so sorry, I just- what was I thinking-”

Louis kisses him softly to shut him up, petting down his spine. Harry did hurt him a bit, yes, but when Louis thinks it over, he could’ve stopped him if he wanted to. He let it happen, though, let Harry use him like that, and now, he’s kind of happy he did. The soreness of his lower half almost distracts him from the pain in his chest.

“I’m okay,” Louis assures, pulling away. “Really.”

Harry just sniffles, watching his face. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then he just sobs quietly. Louis’s heart pangs because, yeah, he knows. He feels the same way.

“ _Allez dormir_ , go to sleep,” Louis hums. “ _Tout va bien se passer_ , everything will be alright.”

Harry blinks at him slowly, nuzzling into his chest. Louis wraps him up and holds him tight, reaching down with one arm to get the covers up and over them. Harry falls asleep almost instantly, and for the first time and maybe the last time, he stays the night.

-

Louis doesn’t end up sleeping at all. He watches the moon out the window all night, playing with Harry’s hair where his head is resting on Louis’s chest. He feels sick to his stomach, terrified for morning to come. This could very well be the last time he ever sees Harry, and he’s not quite sure he’s ready to let him go.

The small clock on Louis’s bedside ticks ominously through the night, each tick bringing Louis a second closer to losing the lovely boy in his arms. The sky turns from black to gray to purple and orange and red and then finally Harry opens his eyes, blinking slowly.

“Mm,” Harry hums, yawning against Louis’s collarbone. “Time is it?”

“Just past six,” Louis says softly, scratching at Harry’s scalp. “How do you feel?”

“Like death,” Harry sighs, pulling the covers up where they’ve slipped off his shoulder and cuddling closer to Louis. “Like I want to stay here with you for the rest of my life in this bed.”

“Do it,” Louis breathes, pressing his lips against Harry’s forehead and leaving them there. “ _S’il vous plait_. Please.”

Harry lays his hand over Louis’s naked chest, feeling his heartbeat under his palm. He smooths his hand down Louis’s stomach and rest it just above Louis’s groin, looking up at him with a sad smile.

“Can we? One last time?” he breathes, pinkie bumping the base of Louis’s cock.

Louis nods, reaching down to cover Harry’s hand with his own. “Yeah. One last time.”

Harry shifts, getting a leg over Louis and pulling himself up on top of him. Louis spreads his legs, trying not to wince at how sore he is when Harry reaches down to stroke over his hole.

“I’m still sorry about last night,” Harry frowns, leaning in to kiss Louis’s lips for a moment. “I was so upset, and so drunk. I’m so stupid,” he shakes his head.

“Hey, don’t be sorry,” Louis says, cupping Harry’s cheek. “I could’ve stopped you if I wanted,” he shrugs.

“Oh yeah?” Harry smirks, kissing down Louis’s neck. 

Louis hums happily and melts into the bed a little bit, reaching over for where Harry left the lube on the bedside and holding it out for Harry when Harry pulls away.

“I’ll be gentle this time,” Harry promises, taking the lube. “Take my time. Make it good,” he says, reaching back down between Louis’s legs once his fingers are slicked up and rubbing around Louis’s hole.

Louis reaches down for where the duvet has slipped off of them, pulling it back up around Harry’s shoulders. It’s cozier like this, sweeter, more intimate with the rest of the world blocked out.

Harry smiles down at him and presses his fingers in. Louis’s eyes flutter shut, back arching a bit, his breath leaving him in one low hum. Harry really takes his time, fingering him open with two, and then three fingers. He makes sure Louis is stretched open, makes sure his cock is hard and leaking, makes sure Louis is already about wrecked by the time he pulls his fingers out and slicks up his cock.

When Harry presses in, Louis thinks he might be reaching the gates of heaven. Harry’s never been this gentle with him before, given it to him this slow, and Louis is loving it. He wants this to last forever, wants Harry to stay right here in this bed like he said and make love to him for the rest of his life.

Harry fucks him so tenderly, so sweetly, Louis just about loses his mind. His thrusts are slow, controlled, so fucking _good_ they’re both shaking, Louis’s thighs trembling where they’re looped around Harry’s hips.

It’s so different from the previous night, the way Harry is watching him. He looks like he thinks Louis is the most beautiful thing in the world, and Louis almost feels it. Harry leans in and captures his lips in a kiss, humming quietly into his mouth. He lowers himself down onto his elbows on either side of Louis’s head and rolls his hips a few times, finding Louis’s prostate and grinding right against it.

Louis cries out into Harry’s mouth, legs spreading wider under the covers. It’s so warm like this, with the duvet trapping all the heat in, Louis simultaneously feels brimming with life and ready to pass out. 

Harry never once speeds up or slows down or changes anything at all, moving so slowly and so surely inside of Louis. Louis’s orgasm creeps up on him slowly, building incrementally until the pressure is so much he thinks he might explode. It crashes over him like a wave, pulsing out of him so intensely he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t breathe.

Harry fucks him through it and then pulls out, looming over him while he gets a hand around his own cock. Louis watches dazedly as Harry jerks himself off quickly, coming over Louis’s tummy and adding to the mess Louis’s own orgasm made.

Harry collapses off of him to the side, burying himself in Louis’s neck. Louis wraps himself around him the best he can, holding him tight when Harry hiccups into his hair. 

“Hazza,” Louis coos, rubbing his back.

“I’m fucking terrified,” Harry breathes, pulling away and looking at Louis with red, watery eyes. “What if I never see you again?”

Louis smiles, because if he doesn’t smile he’ll cry and he can’t cry right now, he can’t let himself feel anything yet. He leans in and kisses Harry’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, and then his lips. “Shh,” he smiles, holding Harry close when he cuddles back in.

They stay like that until the sun is all the way up, and Harry has to get back before they start to worry about him. He climbs out of bed and gets dressed in his clothes from the night before, while Louis pulls on his sleep pants and a jumper and trudges out to the kitchen. 

Harry follows him after a moment, takes his hand and allows Louis to lead him to the door. Harry stops him before they leave the kitchen, through, grabbing an envelope from the worktop near the door to the den and a pen that happens to be sitting near it. He scribbles something down and hands it to Louis, looking hopeful.

“Write to me? Please?” he whispers, watching as Louis looks over the address printed on the back of the envelope. 

Louis smiles, placing it gingerly on the worktop and picking up Harry’s hand, pressing the gentlest of kisses to the back of it. “ _Bien sûr, je veux, mon cher_ ,” he hums.

Harry smiles back at him and Louis leads him to the door, allowing himself to be wrapped up in one last hug.

“I’ll miss you, Louis,” Harry breathes into his neck, pulling away to look at him with wet, beautiful eyes. “Thank you for everything.”

“ _Toi aussi tu vas me manquer_ ,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s hip. “I will miss you too.”

Harry kisses him once more, just quickly, and then he’s gone. He slips out the door, closes it behind himself, and Louis may never see him again.

He leans his forehead against the wood for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. Once he’s regained his composure he cuts back through the doorway to the kitchen, snatching the envelope with Harry’s address on it and tossing it right into the bin.

-

He makes himself breakfast and takes it to the balcony, curling up in the little wicker chair next to his little wicker table and munching on his toast. It’s chilly, colder than a morning in late April has any right to be. Louis’s feet are bare and his toes might freeze off but he doesn’t mind, because there’s still sweat drying on his hairline from this morning and the cold keeps him from thinking about why.

There are military trucks driving through the streets of his beautiful little village, carting the Americans off to battle. Louis doesn’t know where, doesn’t know why. He doesn’t want to know. Knowing would make him imagine it, and the last thing he wants is to imagine it.

He eats all of his toast and tucks his knees up to his chest, watching each military truck in the line as it lumbers past his flat and out of the village. He kind of wants to cry, but he’s too sad for that.

He stays outside long after the trucks are gone, smoking through three quarters of a pack of cigarettes. The smoke feels better than anything he’s felt in a while, and the little ashtray he keeps on the railing of his balcony is beginning to look like a little battleground of its own.

He takes his dirty plate and sorrowful self inside eventually, once the morning has started to warm up a bit. He knows, as he washes his plate in the sink, that he’s just being silly. Harry was just a fling, and that’s all. Louis isn’t in love with him, no matter how he’s feeling. It was just a fling, and Louis needs to get over it, and that’s exactly why he isn’t going to write to him. He’s going to forget about this, find a new boy, and move on.

With that thought he sets off back to his bedroom to lay in bed for a few hours and try to catch up on the sleep he didn’t get last night. He climbs into bed, ignoring the heavy scent of sex on his sheets. He’ll have to make a trip to the laundromat later.

He lays on his stomach and curls his hand under his pillow, jumping when he feels something cool against the side of his hand. He wraps his fingers around it and pulls it out, his heart throbbing in his chest when he realizes what it is.

Harry’s dog tags, the chain still perfectly intact. Louis has no idea how they came off, or when. He breaks a little, sobs once and drapes the chain around his neck, clutching the tags in his suddenly shaking hand.

“Get over it,” he tells himself, gritting his teeth. “Get over it.”

He falls asleep still clutching the dog tags, face smushed into his pillow. The sheets still smell like Harry and the air is too cold and the world is too cruel, but Louis sleeps for a few blessed hours.

-

The absence of the American soldiers when he gets to work the following day is shocking. The pub is so empty, so quiet, with just a few of their old regular patrons dotted here and there at the tables that just the other day were filled with loud, rowdy soldiers.

Louis waits on the old couple that lives in the flat below him, and the single mother that lives above the bakery down the street. There a few teenagers at table eleven, and Louis watches them for a bit. They’re happy, laughing, joyful even though the world is ending around them. They’re so oblivious. _Look around_ , Louis wants to tell them. _Can’t you see that the sky is falling in?_

Stan catches him in the alley during a smoke break, nicks a cigarette from him and sits too close to him on the concrete ground. Neither of them says anything for a bit, until Stan pipes up.

“Bit weird, innit?” he says, glancing over at him. “The soldiers leaving? It’s so empty around here now,” he says. 

“Yeah, it’s strange,” Louis muses, looking up at the sky. It’s cloudy tonight, the moon just a haze of light in the fog.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” Stan points out, still watching him. “Where have you been?”

Louis doesn’t look over, doesn’t react. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and puffs it toward the moon, a peace offering. “Nowhere. Around,” he shrugs.

“Mhm,” Stan nods, taking a puff of his own cigarette. “Saw you hanging out with one of those American soldiers that were in here all the time,” he says, watching Louis closely.

Louis looks down, inspects his fingernails. “Yeah?”

“Lou,” Stan sighs, turning to face him fully. Louis does his best not to shrink in on himself, glancing up at him. “You’re my best friend, yeah? And I’m yours. You can tell me,” he assures, patting Louis’s ankle.

“Tell you what?” Louis squeaks, frowning in confusion.

“Anything. How you’re feeling,” Stan shrugs, sitting back against the wall. “Who he was, what he was like. Why you brought him home with you every night.”

Louis groans, dropping his head back against the wall. “You know, then?”

“I don’t know anything,” Stan chuckles, nudging him with his knee. “And I don’t have to. But you can tell me, if you want to,” he says.

Louis falls silent for a moment, taking a few more puffs of his cigarette before snuffing it out on the ground. “I don’t know how I’m feeling. I mean, he wasn’t anyone special, right? He was just another man who likes men,” he shrugs. “It was easy. It’s not like we fell in love, not at all. I mean, yeah, it was nice having him around, and he was good in bed, and everything, but… I’m not sure it’s him that I miss?” he admits, playing with his shoe lace.

Stan hums quietly, leaning his head back against the wall. They’re quiet for another few minutes, until, “you know I can see everything from the bar, yeah?”

Louis frowns, looking over at him. “What?”

“I mean, I can see everything. I could see him follow you through the kitchen during your smoke breaks, I saw you two lock yourselves in the toilet that one time. I could see the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you. Especially when he was here alone. If it was just a physical thing for you, I can respect that, but I think you should give your heart the memo,” he says.

Louis’s jaw drops, staring at Stan for a long minute. “You’re full of shit,” he chuckles, nudging Stan with his shoulder and climbing to his feet. 

“I wish I was,” Stan sighs wistfully. “Sorry, Lou.”

Louis rolls his eyes, heading back for the door. Stan grabs his arm before he can get there, though, suddenly standing far too close for comfort.

“I really am, Lou, sorry. Sorry it had to happen like this,” he says softly.

Louis bites the inside of his cheek, nodding shortly. He pulls away from Stan and lets himself back inside the pub, just about running to the dining room to do his rounds. 

Stan is full of shit, obviously. Louis isn’t in love with Harry, and Harry isn’t in love with him. It was just a fling, honestly, and he’s tired already of thinking about it. 

-

It takes about a week for it all to become too much for Louis. So much has been happening with the war recently, it’s killing him just to think about it. He’s been actually listening to the news, somewhat over the whole blissful ignorance thing. Hitler killed himself, apparently, just yesterday, but there’s still a long way to go in the war. He tries not to think about it, but it eats away at him, the thought of sweet, gentle Harry out there dealing with this bullshit.

It’s about two in the morning, and he’s curled up in the armchair next to the stereo in the den. He’s got the news on and a cup of tea in his hands, a blanket thrown over his lap. He’s worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, drumming his short trimmed nails against the side of his ceramic tea cup. 

It takes another few moments and an updated death count before Louis reaches his trembling hand out to shut the radio off, basking in the silence of his dark den. He takes a shaky sip of his tea and then puts it down on the coffee table in front of him, trying not to think.

It’s been a week since Harry left. Seven days. Louis’s been trying not to think about him but honestly he’s been failing, and it gets harder every day to look at the table where Harry used to sit and not wish that he was there. Louis knows that the envelope with Harry’s mailing address on it is still at the bottom of his bin, and with each passing moment he’s finding it harder and harder to resist going to dig it out.

He gets up and brings his tea cup to the kitchen, dumping the rest of it down the sink. He drapes his blanket over his shoulders and heads out to the balcony, curling up on his little settee and staring up at the moon. It’s way too cold to be outside at the moment but he doesn’t care, wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders and snuggling into the corner of the settee. 

He spends a few moments composing letters to Harry in his mind, directing them toward the moon in hopes they’ll get back to him. It isn’t until he’s been staring up at the moon for close to twenty minutes that he starts to lose his mind, scrubbing his hands down his face.

“It was just a fling,” he tells the moon, shaking his head. “ _Je ne l'aime pas_ , I don’t love him!” he insists. “I just want things to go back to the way they were. I don’t want this. I don’t want the war, I don’t want the feelings, I don’t want to be scared for him,” he groans, tucking his knees up to his chest and hiding his face in them. 

The moon seems like she doesn’t believe him, and Louis isn't sure he believes himself either.

He heads back inside after a few minutes, determinedly shuffling through his bookcase to find his notebook. He tears free a few pages and brings them to the kitchen, grabbing the pen off the worktop and sitting himself down at the kitchen table.

_Dear Harry,_

_I hate to admit it, but somehow I cannot stop thinking of you. I hope you are well, and that things are going better than you had expected. I know you were so scared when you left me to go to battle, and I hope for your sake that things aren’t so bad._

_It’s been so weird around here since you left. I expected things to go back to normal once all of the soldiers were gone, but that is exactly the opposite of what happened. Everything is weird, and lonely, and I miss you. The pub is so quiet, I can hardly stand it._

_I’ve been listening to the news, which is big for me, considering you know how I feel about what goes on in the world. I’ve been listening for you, mostly, to know what you’re doing out there, to know what’s going on. ~~Je pense que ça sonne tellement horrible, je ne sais pas comment vous avez mis en place avec elle.~~ Sorry, it is late, my brain does not want to translate. What I meant was: it sounds so horrible, I don’t know how you can put up with it. It is 2:00 in the morning and I am distraught just imagining it, you are so brave for going out there and doing it, no matter how afraid you are._

_I remember you told me once that you do not think that you are brave. I think that is bullshit. A coward wouldn’t have gone. A coward would have stayed in my bed with me that morning, and have missed the trucks as they rolled out of the village. I wish you were a coward, Harry, but you are not. You are brave, and you will come home. I will see you again, I know it._

_Good luck, please write soon. It has been agony keeping myself from writing you this long, I absolutely cannot live without reply._

_Cordialement à vous,_  
_Louis_

He folds it up when he’s happy with it, finding a clean envelope in one of the drawers in the kitchen and sealing it up. He goes for the bin next, digging out the envelope Harry wrote on a week ago. He finds it, slightly soiled with what appears to be marinara sauce and a bit of spinach, and copies the address on it to his clean envelope. He’s sure to write his return address clearly so that Harry will be able to respond, and then he leaves it on his kitchen table so he won’t forget to bring it to the post in the morning.

With that he sets off to bed, bringing the extra blanket with him. He curls up under his sheets that just smell like laundry detergent and him since he washed them, and drifts off to sleep slowly. He doesn’t dream of the war, blessedly, but he doesn’t dream of anything at all.

-

He mails the letter the next morning, sending it off with a kiss before he drops it into the mailbox. He gets on with his life once it’s sent, because there’s nothing more he can do now than wait, and he’s tired of sitting around feeling sad.

He goes to the market, spends hours picking out fruits and pastries to stock his cupboards with. He can’t help but smile as he picks out a few bright oranges, remembering the way Harry always loved to steal them when he came over. 

He buys a chocolate croissant for breakfast on his way back to his flat, putting away all of his groceries and then sitting out on his balcony to eat it. It’s warm today, early May, the sun up right over his head and lighting up his balcony beautifully. He spends a few hours basking in it, imagining that when he goes to work tonight Harry will be there, will come home with him, will fuck him until he has to leave too soon.

Harry isn’t there when he gets to work that night, though, of course. None of the soldiers are there, but now that the regulars are starting to come back, the tables are mostly full and Louis has a moderately busy night. It helps keep his mind off what he knows is going on outside, helps keep him sane.

And so life goes on, the days drag past, and Louis checks his mailbox every single night when he gets home from work. It’s empty, usually, aside from the bills Louis doesn’t want to pay. It takes a bit longer than a week before finally he comes home to find a reply from Harry.

He can’t help the way excitement bubbles in his stomach, clutching the letter in his hands and running up the stairs to his apartment. He debates with himself for a moment when he gets there, staring at Harry’s blocky handwriting on the back of the envelope. He almost doesn’t want to open it yet, for fear of the excitement ending so quickly.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but, yes, he’s fucking thrilled. Just the small reassurance that Harry is at least still alive is comforting. 

He decides to leave the letter unopened on the kitchen worktop, wanting to save it for later. He heads to the bathroom for a shower, still covered in the fruity cocktail some drunk middle aged women spilled over him at the pub earlier. He strips out of his dirty clothes and drops them in the hamper, jumping into the shower and turning the water on hot.

He showers quickly, still thinking about the letter sitting on his worktop. He can hardly wait a second longer by the time he gets out of the shower, slipping on a robe and bringing the letter to his bed.

He curls up under the covers and delicately opens the envelope, careful not to rip anything. The letter itself is barely a full page, and Louis only pouts a little as he opens it up.

_Louis,_

_I’m so happy you wrote. It’s so comforting to hear from you._

_The war is going well so far. Actual combat has been rare, and nothing has been too horrible (yet). I don’t like it at all; I’m always stressed out, I can’t sleep, can’t eat. My hands are constantly shaking these days. But I’m okay. I want to go home, come back to you, but I know this isn’t nearly over yet._

_I hope you’re well. You were so quiet the morning we parted. I wish I had said more to you. I wish you had said more to me. I’m praying that I will get to see you again soon, but who can be sure._

_I think about you every day. Thinking about getting to see you after all of this is done is one of the only things keeping me going. I hope you don’t miss me as much as I miss you, I don’t ever want you to be in this kind of agony._

_Sorry this is so short. I will try to write again soon, but I am so busy. Please write soon, though I’m not sure when I will be able to respond._

_Harry_

Louis reads it over a few times, his stomach sinking. He doesn’t want to hear how sad Harry is, or how scared. He hates thinking about it. He wants Harry to come back, to be done with this. He hates everyone who had a hand in doing this to him.

He goes straight to his kitchen table to write his reply, keeping Harry’s letter next to him while he opens up to a clean page in his notebook. If he can make Harry feel better by writing, then, damnit, he’s going to write.

_Dearest Harry,_

_I am so glad you’re doing well. I have been eagerly awaiting your reply, and it is so good to hear from you. I’m sorry to hear that you are troubled, but you are alive, and that is all that matters._

_As I write, I have just gotten home from work. I cannot remember if I’ve told you this already, but it is so, so quiet here without all of you. Tonight at the pub a woman spilled her drink over me and her husband laughed, and it made me so angry. I miss having you to look at when people are rude to me. I miss looking at your eyes._

_I have not been sleeping well, either. It is getting warmer outside, but my bed is still so cold. I found your dog tags under my pillow the day you left, did I tell you that? I’ve kept them in my sock drawer for safekeeping. I hope you have an extra set with you, for I am not very willing to part with them. I like to hold them when I am missing you, lay them against my chest and pretend that you are there, too._

_I cannot think of what else to tell you. I wish I had comforting news to tell you, but I do not. All I have done recently is go to work, check my mailbox for your reply, and listen to the news. A young boy was saved from a burning building in the village next to mine. An old woman passed away peacefully in her sleep and was laid to rest next to her husband in the cemetery where her parents and grandparents have been laid to rest before her. I hope that is how I go, peacefully. I hope the same for you._

_I cannot imagine what you’ve been through already. I cannot contain my excitement for the day you come back._

_Please write soon, if you are able. I will be waiting eagerly for anything you have to share with me._

_Cordialement à vous,_  
_Louis_

He seals the letter in an envelope as soon as it’s finished, running down the stairs in just his robe, hair still wet, to leave it in the mailbox to be sent. He brings Harry’s letter back to bed when he gets back to his flat, spending a long few minutes tracing his fingers over the curves of Harry’s words.

He’s not in love, he tells himself. He has a massive soft spot for Harry, of course, and that is all. Harry is so sweet and gentle and caring, and Louis only wishes the best for him. He falls asleep with the letter still clutched loosely in his hand, hair still dripping onto his pillow.

-

They build up something of a regular correspondence. 

Louis gets a letter about once a week from Harry, and usually mails his reply the same night. They talk about the war, mostly, how it’s going and how Harry is doing. Each week brings a new tale to twist Louis’s stomach, but Harry is managing, and so is Louis.

Harry’s letters are always the brightest points of his week. No matter what terrible stories Harry has to tell him, each letter tells Louis that Harry is still there, still fighting, has survived another week. That is all Louis can ask for, at this point.

In his heart, Louis knows that this is pointless. Harry is an American, and when the war is over, he’s going to go home. He’s not coming back to Louis, he’s going back to North Carolina. And that’s if Harry even makes it out of the war. Louis is not stupid, nor is he much of an optimist; Harry is clumsy, gentle, and forgiving to a fault. People like that don’t last long in war. People like Harry don’t last long.

But still he writes, because writing helps Harry and helping Harry helps him. They correspond regularly for five weeks, five peaceful weeks, until things start going to shit and Harry’s letters start coming slower.

Harry has had to keep a lot of details of the war out of his letters, because there are things he’s not supposed to tell, secrets he is supposed to keep. He says things are getting harder, though, his friends keep dying, and he’s starting to lose his mind. It’s not uncommon anymore for Harry’s letters to make Louis cry, because imagining any of the horrors Harry has been through are too much for him to handle.

He gets a letter once a week until about halfway through June, and then it’s two weeks until he gets another letter.

_Louis_

_Sorry it’s taking so long to reply. We are constantly on the move, it’s hard to find time and a place to mail anything. I don’t know when you will even get this, but as I write, it is about three days since I received your last letter._

_Things are more horrible than ever. I’ve nearly been killed three times today alone, and I’m afraid that soon it’s going to actually happen. All of my friends keep dying. Half of the people I used to come to the pub with are dead. I don’t think I can handle this much longer._

_Sorry I don’t have much good news these days. I am unbelievably stressed and sad. I cannot wait to come back to you, and to get out of here. I’ve been sitting for about two minutes, and we’re already about to move again._

_I hope I will be able to write you with a lighter heart soon. I have to go now, I’m sorry._

_Harry_

The writing toward the end gets sloppy, like Harry was rushing to finish. Louis is on the floor beside the sofa in his den, reading the letter with trembling hands.

It’s not good. Harry’s alive, but he’s not good.

He wipes at his eyes and finds them a bit wet, his heart throbbing in his chest. He wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to get the fuck off the floor and go save Harry himself.

He almost doesn’t even want to write back, because he has no idea how he’s supposed to act like any of this is okay, how he’s supposed to make Harry feel better when he himself feels like he’s crumbling. He has to write back, though, has to let Harry know that he’s still here for him.

He pulls himself up off the floor and to the kitchen, dropping down into a chair and reaching for his notebook. He cards his fingers through his hair roughly as he stares down at the blank lines of the paper, shaking his head. 

He grabs his pen and just starts writing, pushing his own feelings aside for Harry’s sake.

_Harry,_

_I am so relieved that you are okay. I was so worried when your reply took so long. I’m sorry to hear that things are so horrible, but at least you are alive._

He stops to take a deep breath, tapping his pen against the table. He thinks back to when he first saw Harry, when he was nothing but a pair of friendly green eyes that Louis found comfort looking into.

_You have to keep going. You have to come back. I don’t know what I’ll do if I never get to see you again._

He wipes angrily at his face, capping his pen for a moment. Part of him wishes he never met Harry in the first place. If he hadn’t met Harry, he wouldn’t be in so much pain right now. He wouldn’t know in so much detail what is going on with the war, and he wouldn’t have a personal stake in it. But then again, he can’t imagine going his whole life without having ever met Harry at all. He may be heartbroken for the boy right now, but he can’t regret knowing him.

_Things around here are pretty much the same. People are hopeful about the end of the war. Nobody really knows for sure, but they think it’ll end soon. Good, this has been going on far too long. I hope that it will end before anyone else dies. I hope they find a way to end it without anyone else dying, good or bad. The thing is, there is so much good in the world. You, specifically, you are the good in the world. You, and the thousand others like you. You are so good and you are going to do such good things and this isn’t it, this isn’t the good thing you’re supposed to do. You cannot die because you are the best this shit world has to offer and the universe cannot lose you, it cannot afford to lose you._

_I hope that there will never be another war again. I hope that nobody ever dies again before they have to. I hope that no man ever kills another man, for any reason. Keep fighting, Harry, because you have to. Come home, Harry, because you have to. You are going to save the world, if not today or tomorrow then someday, and I am going to be there to see it._

He stops for a moment, drops his pen with a clatter and gets up. He takes his pack of cigarettes from the table in the den and steps out onto the balcony, leaning on the railing while he fumbles his lighter in his shaking fingers.

He smokes for a while, going through two whole cigarettes in as much time as he can make them last. He cries a little, but not much; out here, there is no war. Louis cannot see it on the horizon, cannot smell it in the air. Out here, the war does not exist. Without the radio, and without the world, no harm is done, ever. Louis misses the days when crime didn’t exist, when war was just a game he and Stan played in the schoolyard. He misses the days when the radio played fairy tales, instead of tragedies. 

He goes back inside when his hands have stopped shaking. The letter is waiting just where he left it, doesn’t crumble in his hands when he picks it up like everything else does these days.

_Do you remember the night in January we took pictures with my camera? We sat in the bathtub, stark naked, laughing and taking photos for hours. We hardly touched each other that night._

He remembers it fondly, the way they kissed tenderly and nothing more. That night, it was almost like they were in love.

_I still have all of those photos. There are so many of you. I keep them in my dresser for when I am missing you. It makes me smile to see your face._

_I want to include one or two with this letter. I want you to have some of them. I want you to look at them and remember that life isn’t always so cruel, that the world sometimes gives you so much more than it takes from you later on._

He puts his pen down again and walks to his bedroom, opening the drawer where he keeps Harry’s dog tags. Pushed into the furthest corner of the drawer is a stack of polaroid photos.

He pulls them out and sits down on the bed, flipping through them. Most of them are of Harry, naked, laughing, and folded up into the corner of Louis’s bath. There are photos of Louis, as well, half covered by the shower curtain, eyes sparkling even in black and white.

He picks a photograph of himself to send, one that doesn’t show much. It’s blurry, taken from his shoulders up, his face twisted up into a grin and his hair wild and messy from Harry playing with it. He knows that out of the frame of the photo Harry is squeezing his knee, sending him into the fit of giggles he’s gearing up for in the frozen moment. It makes him smile to think about, and he brings it back to the kitchen where the letter is waiting, still unfinished.

_Please write soon. I understand that it is not easy for you, but please try and find time. I need your letters nearly as much as you need mine._

_Cordialement à vous,_  
_Louis_

He folds the letter and tucks the photograph inside of it, slipping it into an empty envelope. He scribbles down the most recent address Harry gave him, seals up the envelope, and brings it straight to the mailbox to send it off. 

-

Louis hasn’t received a letter from Harry in almost a month. Louis learned through the news that the American troops have moved to Berlin, but that doesn’t mean that Harry is with them. It makes Louis sick to think about, but there is a very real possibility that Harry will never reply to his last letter. 

He still goes to work, checks his mailbox, goes to bed, wakes up and repeats. It’s like he’s stuck in an endless loop, and he can’t stand it anymore. Stan has picked up on it, and that’s why Louis is pushing him away now. He can’t deal with Stan telling him he’s in love with Harry because he can’t even admit it to himself, and hearing it makes him feel like it’s true and makes it that much harder to deal with the fact that Harry is probably dead.

“Lou!” someone calls, startling Louis nearly to his death. He turns around to find Jon watching him carefully, eyebrows furrowed. “No one’s hungry, or are you not taking orders?”

“Sorry,” Louis mutters, tying his apron on and pushing out of the kitchen. There’s hardly anyone in the pub tonight, but there’s a new table of young guys at table eight that he hasn’t waited on yet. He tries to pull himself together as he walks over, plastering on a smile.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he chirps, “what can I get for you?”

He’s still not used to not having to speak in English at work. The American soldiers have been gone for months, but Louis still greets almost every table in English. The table orders in French and Louis shuffles away to the bar, waiting to catch Stan’s attention to put in their drink requests.

While he’s waiting, one of the boys from table eight comes up behind him and touches his hip. Louis turns to him, skeptical, and backs away an inch.

“Hi,” the boy, man, really, hums. “What is your name again?”

“Louis,” Louis says simply, turning back to look for Stan. The man nudges a bit closer, and Louis does his best not to tense up.

“Right,” the guy says. “I’m Nathan.”

Louis turns to look at him, slowly catching on to what he’s trying to do. Louis has been here before, in his position, even, trying to pick up boys without looking like he’s picking them up.

“Ah,” Louis hums, smirking. “And what can I do for you, Nathan?”

“Meet me after your shift?” Nathan mumbles, quiet enough for just the two of them. He looks foolishly hopeful, and excitement zips down Louis’s spine.

“I’m out at nine,” Louis tells him, giving him one last little smile before taking the tray Stan slides him over the bar. Nathan grins and goes back to his table, Louis following almost immediately after with the drinks.

They keep making eye contact all night. The attention is exciting, of course, and Louis misses having someone to flirt with like this. He forces Harry out of his head, at least for now; it was just a fling, anyway, Louis is allowed to talk to other boys.

Nathan sticks around after his friends leave, sitting at the bar and discreetly watching Louis work. Nine o’clock cannot come fast enough, but eventually it does, and Louis packs up his bag and throws Nathan a wink over his shoulder on the way out the door.

He comes rushing out a moment later, just as Louis is pulling out a cigarette for the walk home. They match pace without saying a word, and Louis leads him all the way back to his own flat.

“I like it,” Nathan says, as Louis lets him in. “Quaint.”

“Thank you,” Louis hums, shrugging off his jacket and dropping it right on the floor. “Care to see the bedroom?”

Nathan grins at him, following after him like an overexcited puppy. He’s so sweet, he makes Louis’s teeth hurt a little bit. 

He’s not Harry, of course, but Louis supposes he’ll do.

Louis kicks his shoes off and under the bed, turning around to face Nathan. Nathan looks apprehensive but he reaches out, putting his hands on Louis’s hips and pulling him closer. Louis stops him before their lips meet, whirling them around and pushing Nathan down on the bed to climb into his lap. Nathan reaches up to get at the buttons on Louis’s shirt and Louis lets him, pressing his arse down against his crotch while he works.

Nathan whines softly and Louis grins, grinding his hips in slow circles. Nathan’s hands get Louis’s buttons undone and then fall to his thighs, sliding up until he can cup over Louis’s crotch.

Louis looks up at the ceiling as he moves his hips, smiling slightly to himself. As his gaze falls back down his eyes catch on something glinting in the dim light in the room, and his entire body freezes.

Harry’s dog tags are lying on his pillow, right where he left them this morning. It had been a rough night last night, Louis had slept with them on, and left them there before he left for work.

“Everything alright?” Nathan asks, fingers rubbing over the line of Louis’s soft cock. Louis breathes in and out very slowly, and then shakes his head.

“No, I’m sorry,” he breathes, pushing Nathan’s hands away. “I can’t.”

He makes to climb off, but Nathan grabs his hips. “What? Why not?”

“I- I’m sorry, it’s difficult to explain. I just, I’m very sorry, I can’t do this,” Louis says, trying to pry Nathan’s hands off his hips.

Nathan frowns and sits up, face inches away from Louis’s. Louis turns his head, tries and fails again to stand up. “I don’t understand.”

“Let go of me,” Louis demands, finally twisting out of Nathan’s grip and getting up. “Leave, please.”

“What did I do?” Nathan asks, standing up from the bed. “Is it me?”

“No, I just,” Louis sighs, turning on his heel and walking toward the den in hopes of getting Nathan out. “I can’t do this. There’s someone else,” he tries, wincing at the way it sounds out loud.

“He’s a soldier, isn’t he,” Nathan says. “I saw the dog tags.”

Louis sets his jaw, opening the door for him.

“When was the last time you heard from him?” Nathan says, sounding bitter. “He’s probably dead.”

Louis does his absolute best not to flinch. Nathan scoffs and walks out, leaving Louis to close the door after him. He locks it, just to be sure, and then falls into the sofa face first and sobs quietly.

Harry’s fucked him up for good, he realizes. He’s afraid he’ll never meet anyone again who will treat him like Harry did, who will make him feel the way Harry did. Fuck, okay, Louis might be a little bit in love with him, and Harry’s most likely dead. Nathan said it himself.

He pulls himself together for a few minutes, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. He needs a hot shower, and then some sleep. He gets up and drags himself to the bathroom, and once he’s scrubbed his skin nearly raw in the shower, he falls into bed with Harry’s dog tags around his neck.

-

Louis fucking hates America.

Louis fucking hates war in general, but he especially fucking hates the way America is going about it. Just last week they dropped an atomic fucking bomb on Japan, and the other day they dropped another one. Everyone is saying it’s brilliant, the technology, the power, but Louis feels sick.

They don’t even know how many people are dead. The bombs completely obliterated two major Japanese cities, and killed probably thousands of innocent people. Louis finds it completely and utterly disgusting, the fact that all of those people had to die for something they didn’t even do.

It’s August now. The weather is beautiful, warm, so warm Louis has to leave his windows open at night so he doesn’t suffocate. He fucking hates America, and he fucking hates war, and he fucking wants Harry back.

The last word he got from Harry was in July. It had been short, hardly a few sentences. It had done nothing to appease Louis’s worry. Louis would almost rather Harry be dead than be as fucked up as his words made him seem.

He’s been at work all day, listening to how brilliant the atomic bombs are. He can’t bear to think anymore by the time his shift is over, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He’s tried to pick up boys here and there, but none of them make him feel better. None of them are Harry. And he doesn’t even want to go home, either, because everything in his flat makes him think of Harry. The bed, the sofa, the shower. Harry infected every single inch of the place with his memory and Louis can’t escape him, can’t move on. It fucking sucks, right, because Harry’s been gone nearly as long as he was here and it was just a fucking fling, why can’t Louis move on?

He doesn’t go home after work. He starts walking in the opposite direction from the pub and just keeps going, head down and hands stuffed in the pockets of his trousers. It’s too warm for long trousers and a long sleeve shirt but he doesn’t care, hopes he boils to death on the streets.

People keep saying the war is nearly over. Surely Japan will surrender now, after the bombs. Surely they will back down, and the war will end. Surely there will be peace soon. Surely.

But Louis doesn’t even know if he wants that, because the end of the war means finding out for sure if Harry is really gone, and Louis is too afraid of the confirmation. In his heart, he knows it’s probably true, but he can’t stand to actually find out.

He wanders around the village for the majority of the night, thinking and conspiring and hating. He doesn’t head home until the sky is purple with the rising sun, and by the time he gets into his flat, the sun is shining bright through the windows and Louis is ready to collapse.

He pictures himself walking in to find Harry on his sofa. He fiddles with his keys for a moment, imagining the scene. Harry is home at long last, the war is over and they just haven’t officially announced it yet, and Harry is safe and okay. Louis’s hands are trembling so hard he can hardly get the door open, but when he does, he comes upon an empty flat.

He checks the balcony and the bathroom just to be sure, but Harry isn’t here. Louis falls into his bed with his work clothes still on and passes out, vowing to check the flat again when he wakes up.

-

He wakes up twenty minutes after he’s supposed to be at work that same evening, and ends up showing up in the very same clothes he’s been wearing the past 24 hours.

Nobody seems to notice his lateness or his appearance when he walks in. The pub is packed with people, seemingly everyone in the entire village, and everyone appears to be celebrating. Louis ducks behind the bar to find Stan, pulling on the back of his shirt to pull his attention away from handing out beers.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice raised over the white noise of the crowd.

“Haven’t you heard?” Stan grins, taking him by the shoulders. “Or don’t you still listen to the news?”

“What?” Louis frowns, pulling away when Stan starts to shake him slightly. 

“The war is over!” Stan cheers, high fiving a man on the other side of the bar who cheers with him. “Japan officially surrendered this morning!”

Louis feels himself smiling, but his heart is sinking. “That’s amazing!” he cheers, but his voice breaks, and Stan notices immediately.

“Lou,” he tries, but Louis waves him off.

“Stop, I’m fine,” he breathes, grinning brightly. “This is great!”

He slips out from behind the bar and back to the kitchen, pushing through the door quickly. His heart is pounding and he’s terrified, suddenly, because this is it. This is when he finally finds out the truth about Harry.

He ties his apron on with nervous fingers, pushing back out into the dining room to start taking orders. He’s one of two waiters on duty tonight, which means he can slack a little bit. He’s extra slow, extra careful in all of his movements, blocking out every word that doesn’t pertain to his job lest he hear something he can’t handle.

He works mechanically the entire night through, until nearly midnight when everyone finally leaves. He doesn’t stay to help close up, ripping his apron off and nearly running back to his flat.

Harry’s not there, obviously. Louis didn’t think he would be, but he hoped. The soldiers probably won’t be back for a few days, at least. Louis has no idea how he’s going to stand the wait.

He strips out of his clothes and climbs into bed, staring up at the moon out the window the whole night through. All he can do is hope that Harry’s looking at it, too, and that he’s on his way back to him.

-

The American soldiers start coming back in small bunches over the next few days. They all look exhausted, worn down, harrowed. Even the ones that used to be rude to Louis break his heart now, they look so beat up.

They aren’t quite as rowdy as they used to be, either. They make small talk at their tables, but they’re just here as a last pitstop before they ship back home to America. Louis is so happy for them he could cry; they made it, and now they get to go home and live in peace.

Of all the soldiers that come through the pub, none of them are Harry. Louis desperately wants to ask if anyone can tell him what happened to Private Harry Styles, but he can’t, because they can’t know they knew each other outside of the pub. Louis sees old gray eyed Richards exactly one week after the end of the war, and all the man does is pat his shoulder and walk on by.

-

Two weeks post war, Louis has come to accept what’s happened. Harry isn’t coming back.

The small bunches of soldiers that have been returning have all gone home, leaving Louis’s sleepy little village sleepy once more. Harry has not come through with them, and Louis has not worked up the courage to ask about him, and for all he’s checked his mailbox, he has no late letter of comfort from him.

At work one night, though, two days after Japan signs the official surrender agreement, Louis spots one lone soldier at table one in the corner. He has close cropped dark brown hair, fair skin, his back hunched and his long legs curled under the table. Louis’s heart tries furiously to escape his chest out his throat as he walks over to the table, his lungs holding him in suspense as he stops just in front of Harry’s hunched over frame.

Harry looks up, and Louis whimpers out loud.

His eyes are all wrong. They’re brown, and too sad. Louis would know Harry’s eyes anywhere, and these are not them.

The man frowns at him and Louis forces a smile, taking out his notepad. “Can I get you anything?” he asks, voice strained.

The rest of his shift passes in a slow, torturous blur. Louis wants nothing more than to go home and have himself a nice, long cry, and maybe a cup of tea. He wants to turn on his Edith Piaf record and chainsmoke in his den. He wants to go home and see his mother, wants her to hold him and tell him he’s going to be just fine.

Louis walks all the way back to his flat that night with tears in his eyes, not bothering to wipe away the few that slide down his cheeks every now and again. It’s such a beautiful night, Louis should be happy to be alive, but he’s not. He’s just in pain.

He’s really crying by the time he gets home, trying to fish his keys out of his pocket with one trembling hand. He feels like all his hands do these days is tremble.

He didn’t get nearly enough time with Harry. He could spend a lifetime with Harry, he thinks, and instead he got barely six months. He’s in love with him, he admits it. He’s deeply, madly fucking in love with him and he can’t even breathe sometimes with how much it hurts to know that he is never going to see him again.

The world is so cruel, Louis doesn’t understand how anyone can bear to love anything. It gives you an inch and it takes a mile and Louis is so exhausted, is all out of space in his heart and in his head and he can’t fucking _breathe_ when he gets into his flat, dropping his bag with a miserable sob.

He blinks slowly and lets the door fall shut behind him, turning to go into the kitchen. He nearly brains himself on the wall when something moves in his periphery, and he whips around to find a man standing in front of his sofa.

If he didn’t know better, he would swear it was Harry. His face looks almost the same but he’s thinner, and his eyes aren’t as bright at his Harry’s. This man looks like he’s been through hell, and Louis finds himself hoping to god that it isn’t him.

“Hi,” he smiles tiredly, calmly, like he didn’t just come back from the fucking dead. Louis is frozen to the spot, overwhelmed, brimming with energy and emotion suddenly.

He launches himself across the room when his brain finally kicks back into gear, crashing into Harry’s arms and digging his face into his chest. He smells like dirt and sweat and it’s not at all pleasant but Louis breathes him in, sobbing into his uniform.

“ _Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime_ ,” Louis sobs, twisting his fingers into the back of Harry’s jacket. “You’re alive, you’re back, fuck, _je t’aime_ , I love you.”

Harry chuckles humorlessly, wrapping his arms around Louis and holding him tight. “Shh, it’s okay, we’re okay. It’s over, Lou,” he whispers, face buried in Louis’s hair. He rocks them gently back and forth, rubbing at Louis’s back.

“I missed you so much,” Louis breathes, his sobs slowly quieting. “I thought-”

“Shh, I know,” Harry soothes. “I’m so sorry I stopped writing. There was never time, and when there was time I didn’t know what to say. I should have sent something anyway, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s okay,” Louis says, turning his ear against Harry’s chest and taking a breath of fresh air. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” Harry grins, pulling back slightly and looking down at him. Louis leans up and kisses him, wrapping his arms around his neck and pulling him down. Harry holds his hips, letting himself be kissed, but Louis is so worked up and excited that he can’t go more than a moment before he loses his breath.

He pulls away and looks up at Harry’s face, running hand over his cheek. “You’re filthy,” he says softly, “and you fucking stink.” Harry laughs, and Louis grins. “When’s the last time you showered?”

“Last week?” Harry shrugs, smiling when Louis pulls a face. “Might I use your bathroom, then?”

“Please,” Louis murmurs, pulling out of Harry’s arms regretfully. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Harry admits, letting Louis take his hand and lead him to the kitchen.

“Will you stay tonight?” Louis asks, too loudly, too hopefully. He bites his lip as he looks at Harry, hoping that Harry won’t say he has to go any time soon. He doesn’t let himself think yet about what happens when Harry goes back to America.

“Of course,” Harry says, pulling his hand out of Louis’s grip and hugging him. “I never intend to let you sleep alone again.”

Louis doesn’t read into that, smiling into Harry’s neck and hugging him tight. “ _Bien_. Good.”

He goes to pull away, but Harry holds on for a moment. “Thank you,” he says, voice muffled by the way he presses his face into Louis’s shoulder. “For writing to me. It kept me sane, honestly.”

Louis grins, squeezing him extra tight. “Me too. Getting letters from you was the best part of my week.” 

Harry chuckles quietly, shaking his head as he pulls back an inch. “I can’t imagine why. Must have been horribly depressing.”

“A bit,” Louis shrugs. “I just liked the affirmation that you were still there.”

Harry smiles down at him, watching his face for a moment. “Earlier, when you came home,” he says, sounding awkward, “when you said you loved me… like-”

Louis smiles and leans up, kissing him hard for a moment. “I meant it,” he whispers in his mouth, pulling back to look up at him. “I didn’t realize until after you were gone.”

Harry grins so bright, he almost looks like the Harry Louis knew before he went to war. “Okay. Good. Me too.”

Louis laughs at nothing, giving Harry another kiss and another tight squeeze. “Alright then. Go wash up, you smell like _un mégot_ ,” he grins, sending Harry off with a little pat to the bum.

“A what?” Harry squawks, grinning when Louis laughs. 

“Nothing. Go!” he giggles, waving Harry off to the bathroom and turning around to get to work on making him something to eat.

By the time Harry is done washing up, Louis has a sandwich and a hug ready for him. Harry looks and smells a bit cleaner, but he’s still off when he sits down at the table, still wearing that stupid uniform.

“So,” Louis says, sitting down opposite him and playing with his own fingers. “Um. Are you, like- are you okay?”

Harry chews thoughtfully, watching him. “What do you mean by okay?”

“Like,” Louis fidgets awkwardly. He hates talking about feelings in any capacity, but he has to know. “Like, did you get hurt? Or, like, sometimes when people come back from war they’re a little messed up, like-”

“I’m not hurt,” Harry saves him, smiling gently. “A little banged up, yes, but nothing major. And as far as being messed up, well, I don’t really know yet. I’ve had a few nightmares, but they said those would go away in time. I don’t think I have shellshock, or anything, not that I’ve noticed,” he says.

“Good, good,” Louis perks up. “Well, not about the nightmares, but I’m glad you’re okay. I was worried,” he admits.

“I figured,” Harry chuckles, taking another bite of his sandwich. They fall into a silence while Harry eats, and Louis doesn’t know if Harry perceives it, but for him it’s tense, uncomfortable.

Louis watches him, looking at his eyes and the way they don’t really shine anymore. His fingers tremble minutely when he lifts the sandwich to his mouth, and his shoulders are more hunched than they used to look.

Harry catches him staring and Louis smiles tightly, looking down at the table. He wants to cry, suddenly.

“Hey,” Harry says, reaching over with one hand to hold Louis’s. Louis’s fingers have steadied, but Harry’s continue to tremble just a bit. “Hey, Louis. I’m fine, look.”

Louis nods, squeezing his eyes shut. He knows Harry thinks he’s fine, but Louis can see all the ways he’s different.

“Bed?” Harry says after a moment, putting the uneaten bit of his sandwich down on his plate. Louis takes it and tosses it into the bin, grabbing Harry’s hand and dragging him into the bedroom.

Louis doesn’t think about the other guys he tried to sleep with, doesn’t think about the one boy he brought here and had to kick out. He doesn’t think about the nights he spent lying awake, sick to his stomach, wishing Harry was next to him. He takes Harry’s hands and lies down with him, their eyes locked on each other.

Louis gets up on his knees and gently undresses Harry, unzipping his jacket and helping him off with it. He undoes the button on Harry’s uniform trousers and lets Harry wiggle out of them and his t-shirt, too, leaving him in just his pants. Harry reaches up and does a few of Louis’s buttons for him, but his shaky fingers won’t cooperate and he looks embarrassed when Louis takes over.

Louis lies down on top of him once he’s down to his pants as well, kissing him sweetly. Harry holds his hips and reacquaints himself with the inside of Louis’s mouth, running his fingertips up and down the curve of Louis’s spine.

Louis pulls away after a long few minutes and sits up on Harry’s hips, looking down at him. His chest and arms are riddled with scratches and bruises, and there’s a new scar on Harry’s left side that runs from about the bottom of his ribs to his bellybutton.

“ _Vous vous êtes blessé_ ,” he frowns, tracing the scar with his finger. “What happened?”

Harry shivers, shaking his head. “Had a run in with somebody’s knife,” he says, voice deathly quiet. 

Louis frowns a little deeper, leaning down to kiss over the scar. “Was it bad?”

“Hardly even broke the skin,” Harry assures. “Well, no, it did break the skin, obviously. Didn’t do any damage, though,” he hums. 

Louis keeps kissing down the line of Harry’s scar, sitting back up when he’s finished. Harry looks sated and a bit sleepy, and Louis smiles at him.

“I am so happy you’re back,” he breathes, running his fingers lightly over Harry’s chest. Harry just smiles up at him dreamily, and Louis leans back down. 

He kisses over every little mark on Harry’s torso, over his hardened shoulders and the bruises on his biceps. There’s a gash on the back of his right forearm and Louis kisses it better for a long few minutes, and then kisses over each of Harry’s rough fingernails and the palm of each hand. He peppers kisses over Harry’s face when he’s finished, smiling when Harry giggles under him. He sits up after a while, urging Harry to turn over under him. Harry settles on his stomach with his arms folded under his head, and Louis gasps at the sight of his back.

He’s so much more muscular than he was before he left, but his entire back is riddled with tiny scars. Harry looks a bit nervous when he looks over his shoulder at Louis, and Louis smooths a gentle hand over his spine.

“It was a grenade,” Harry explains. “Back in June. It got me and another guy pretty good. He didn’t make it, though,” he breathes.

Louis leans down to kiss behind Harry’s ear, kissing down the back of his neck and down his spine. The scars on Harry’s back are awful, some of them long and deep looking and some of them short and sharp. It looks like shrapnel, maybe, like something exploded and buried debris into Harry’s skin. Louis doesn’t know a lot about how explosives work, but he knows he doesn’t like them.

He kisses over each and every scar, rubbing Harry’s lower back soothingly the whole time. When he’s finally finished he looks back up at Harry’s face, grinning when he finds him snoozing soundly.

He crawls off of him gently, tucking himself under Harry’s arm and pulling the covers up and over them. Harry cuddles him close unconsciously, digging his face into Louis’s neck. Louis grins and wraps his arms around him, pressing his nose into his hair and breathing him in.

He can’t remember a time when he was this happy about anything. He hopes it never ends.

-

He wakes up to an empty bed. He panics for approximately ten seconds that last night was all just a lovely dream, until he hears Harry and his baby deer legs crashing around in the kitchen.

He smiles and rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling for a few moments. Harry peeks his head through the doorway and winces, trotting toward the bed carefully.

“Sorry,” he whispers, taking the hand that Louis extends toward him and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Louis assures, tugging Harry’s hand a bit to pull him closer. Harry resists, and Louis pouts.

“I have breakfast on the stove,” Harry says, pressing a kiss to the back of Louis’s hand and standing up. “Was thinking we could sit out on the balcony? It’s nice out today,” he says.

“What are you making?” Louis hums, stretching out under the covers when Harry stands up. Harry takes a moment to stare at him, lips twitching into a smile.

“Eggs?” he says, backing toward the door. “And toast?”

“ _Mon préféré_ ,” Louis grins, stretching his arms up over his head just to give Harry a little more to look at. “My favorite. Come get me when it’s ready.”

Harry smiles at him and shuffles back out to the kitchen, knocking around some more. Louis smiles to himself and turns over onto his stomach, nuzzling his face into his pillow to snooze until Harry comes back.

This is definitely something he could get used to, sleeping in and waking up to breakfast already being made. He doesn’t let himself think about the fact that this probably won’t last, or the fact that Harry isn’t actually his to keep. Maybe if he ignores it, it will all just go away; Harry will stay here forever, and neither of them will question it.

Harry rouses him with a gentle hand on his spine and a gentler pair of lips against the side of his head, and Louis grabs his robe while he follows him out to the balcony. They sit mostly next to each other at the small wicker table, facing out toward the sleepy little village.

They don’t say much while they eat, or after. Louis curls up a little in his chair and produces a cigarette from the pocket of his robe, letting Harry light it for him.

“I have to go,” Harry says, as soon as the task is done. He looks down, playing with Louis’s lighter in his lap.

Louis blinks, taking a long drag of his cigarette and breathing it out slowly. “You don’t have to,” he says, quietly, vulnerably.

Harry just looks over at him, his face a mixture of sad and confused. Louis gives him a tiny smile, shrugging one shoulder.

“You could stay here,” he says, nodding his head out toward the village. “It’s quite peaceful. And, like, I’m here, so,” he shrugs again, laughing weakly.

“I would love to,” Harry smiles, looking at him and then out at the village. “God, I would love to. But I have to go home, Louis,” he says.

Louis swallows, taking another drag of his cigarette. Harry shifts uncomfortably but Louis doesn’t look over at him, isn’t sure if he can.

He wasted all that time worrying and pining over Harry, and he doesn’t even get to keep him?

“I want to go to school,” Harry says, still playing with Louis’s lighter. His thumb flicks over the sparkwheel and Louis watches the flame that appears, until it snuffs out a moment later. “I have my family back home, and my friends. I have this whole other life, or I did, before the war. I want to stay here, Louis, I wish I could, but I can’t give all of that up,” he mutters.

Louis nods slightly, taking another long drag. “What will you study?” he asks, glancing up at Harry.

“Music,” Harry smiles slightly. “I want to write songs, maybe perform them, even,” he shrugs.

Louis nods, smiling down at his own lap. “I’ve never heard you sing,” he realizes quietly. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about Harry outside of the bedroom, and the American military. It doesn’t scare him, though, just makes him want to know _more_. He wants to know everything there is about Harry, he wants the chance to learn it.

Harry doesn’t say anything, just carefully places Louis’s lighter back on the table. Louis takes it, slipping it into his pocket, and stubs his cigarette out on the ashtray. 

Harry gets up after another moment, pushing through the glass door into the den and leaving Louis alone outside. Louis curls up a little tighter in his chair and hides his face in his knees, chewing on his lip and trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Harry leaving him again, for good this time.

He stays outside for a while, until the sun gets too hot where it’s beating directly down on him. He gets up and shuffles back inside, finding Harry curled up in the armchair on the opposite side of the wall from where Louis had been sitting outside.

Harry scrambles up out of his seat, making Louis jump. He looks frantic, suddenly, and Louis freezes to his spot as Harry storms over to him.

“Come with me,” he says firmly.

Louis just blinks, staring at his eyes.

“I know we haven’t known each other all that long, or whatever, and I know you have a life too. I don’t know what’s keeping you here, or if anything is, or everything is, or… I don’t know, okay? I have no idea how any of this works but I’m not- I can’t lose you, I can’t just leave you here without even trying to bring you with me,” Harry explains in a rush, reaching forward to hold Louis by the shoulders. “I’m in love with you, and you said yourself that you’re in love with me, too. So come back with me. Please.”

Louis shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows. “You want me to come to America with you?”

“It’s the land of opportunity!” Harry pitches, grinning madly. “You can do anything! You can go to school, or get a job, or whatever you want! And I know we can’t, you know, be together like we want to be in public. But we could figure it out, get an apartment, make it work. We could do it,” he says, pulling Louis a little closer.

Louis thinks about it for a moment, eyes falling to Harry’s chest. He could go to school, he could get a degree, he could do whatever he wanted. He has enough money saved up from the pub that he could probably make it work. His mum would miss him, of course, but, oh, she would be so proud of him.

“Could I be a teacher?” he asks, looking back up at Harry’s face.

“Of course you could,” Harry grins. “You’d have to go to school and everything, but you’d be an amazing teacher.”

Louis smiles dreamily, looking back down at Harry’s chest. “Yeah. I think I’d like to be a teacher. In America,” he says, grinning when Harry squeezes him a little.

Harry breathes in deep, eyes absolutely shining when Louis looks back up. “So you’ll come back with me?” he asks, clearly trying to remain calm.

“Yes,” Louis hums simply, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile. “I will.”

Harry shouts, pulling Louis into the tightest hug he’s ever gotten. Louis laughs into his chest, hugging him back just as tight.

“I’m so fucking happy,” Harry breathes, pulling back just enough to capture Louis’s lips in a kiss. Louis makes a quiet sound against Harry’s lips and Harry smiles, backing him toward the sofa.

“America,” Louis marvels, as Harry lays him down on the sofa, kissing down his neck. “I’m going to America.”

“You’re going to America,” Harry agrees, smiling up at him from where his lips move against Louis’s chest. “ _We’re_ going to America.”

Louis laughs in wonder, watching as Harry pulls his robe open and kisses down his stomach. Louis feels like he’s on top of the world, hasn’t felt this way in years.

“Bedroom?” he says, scratching at Harry’s head. Harry looks up at him through his eyelashes and Louis smiles, heart fluttering at the prospect of actually getting to keep this beautiful boy.

Harry gets up on his knees and scoops Louis into his arms, Louis’s legs wrapping around his waist immediately. Harry carries him haphazardly to the bedroom, dropping him laughing onto the mattress and crawling up on top of him.

“I love you,” Louis says, holding Harry’s head when he gets close enough. 

“I love you,” Harry grins, leaning down to kiss him sweetly. Louis ruins it by pushing his hips up hard, making Harry grunt quietly.

“Would love you more if you fucked me right now,” Louis mutters, reaching down to get a handful of Harry’s arse and grinding his hips up against him.

Harry chuckles into his mouth and pulls away, sitting up on top of Louis. Louis hadn’t realized before now, but Harry’s wearing a pair of his sleep pants and one of his plain white t-shirts.

“These are mine,” he says, tugging on Harry’s shirt. “You little thief.”

“Sorry,” Harry grins, pulling the shirt off over his head and dropping it on Louis’s face. “There you go.”

Louis scoffs, plucking the shirt off his face and flinging it across the room. “Remember when I mentioned you fucking me? Why isn’t that happening yet?”

Harry laughs loudly, leaning down to kiss him roughly for a moment. “I can’t believe I get to keep you,” he says giddily, leaning down and mouthing at Louis’s tummy.

Louis wriggles out of his robe while Harry plays with him, licking down his stomach and nosing at the waistband of his pants. Once Louis has gotten rid of the robe and is down to just his pants, he reaches down to take hold of Harry’s hair, grinding up against his face.

Harry whines, looking up at him desperately. “Gonna suck you first,” he decides, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Louis’s pants and pulling them down just enough to get Louis’s dick out. Louis doesn’t argue, playing with the longest bits of Harry’s hair while Harry mouths at the head of his cock.

It doesn’t take Louis long to get hard, perking up quickly in Harry’s hand. Harry sinks down on him slowly, sucking gently just to make him squirm. Louis moans softly, dropping his head back, fingers tightening in Harry’s hair. 

Harry makes a quiet noise around his cock, teasing him now. He’s not sucking very hard at all, and he’s staring up at Louis with those big green eyes, Louis can’t help himself.

He gets a better grip on Harry’s hair and forces him down, making him choke a little. Harry whines like he loves it and Louis does it again, holding him down so he’s forced to mouth and splutter around him. Louis moans loudly, directing all of Harry’s actions, getting himself off with Harry’s mouth.

Harry has tears streaming down his face and he gags almost every time Louis pushes himself into his mouth, but he’s moaning like he’s loving it and he looks like every dirty dream Louis’s ever had. Louis holds him down and grinds up into his mouth, and Harry gags so hard Louis has to pull him off so he won’t come too soon.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps, pushing his head back against Louis’s hand as he catches his breath. Louis rubs soothingly at his scalp, and Harry just about purrs. “Wanna fuck you.”

“ _Fais le_ ,” Louis hums, letting go of Harry’s hair and stretching his arms up above his head. “Do it.”

Harry climbs off the bed to shuck off his pants, pulling Louis’s the rest of the way off as well and discarding them on the floor. He grabs the lube from the bedside and then climbs back up between Louis’s legs, slicking up his fingers.

“Did you…?” Harry nods toward his cock awkwardly, shrugging one shoulder. “With anyone else? After I left?”

“No,” Louis says, watching Harry’s face. “I tried, but I couldn’t. _Ces garçons ne sont pas vous_ , they weren’t you,” he explains softly.

Harry grins, leaning in to kiss his lips gently while he circles one finger around Louis’s hole. Louis shudders a bit, making a quiet noise into Harry’s mouth.

Harry opens him up slowly, taking his time and making sure it’s as good for Louis as it can be. Louis is sweating by the time he’s done, writhing and whining and close to tears.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Harry asks, reaching for a condom and rolling it on. Louis just lets his head flop to the side and watches while Harry pushes into him, eyes rolling back in his head.

It’s been a long time. Louis remembers the last time they fucked so clearly, the morning Harry left, and he swears this is even better. Harry trembles a little bit above him and Louis pulls him down, hooking an arm around his neck and bringing him in.

Harry buries his face in Louis’s neck and starts moving slowly, fucking Louis with short little movements that don’t do much for either of them. Louis nips at his ear and drags his nails down his back, getting a handful of his perky little arse.

“ _Baise-moi, mon amour_ ,” he breathes. Harry’s hips falter and he chokes on a moan, his pace quickening incrementally.

They move like that for a bit, Harry’s face pressed into Louis’s neck and his hips rocking quickly. Louis throws his head back and moans for the whole world to hear, digging his nails into the base of Harry’s spine.

Harry sits up after they’ve been going at it a bit, grabbing Louis’s wrists and holding them down next to his head while he fucks him a little harder, grunting with every movement.

“Harry,” Louis whines, struggling against Harry’s hold on him. “Fuck, more.”

“More?” Harry hisses, moving Louis’s wrists up above his head and holding them both there with one hand. He reaches down to get a hold on Louis’s cock, jacking him quickly. “Like this?”

Louis keens, back arching off the bed. “ _Oui_ , yes,” he pants, toes curling behind Harry’s back. “Oh, Harry, I’m gonna come.”

“Let me see, Lou,” Harry mutters, thumbing over the head of his cock and sending little ripples of pleasure throughout his body. “Come for me.”

He shifts his hips a little and fucks directly into Louis’s prostate, and Louis all but screams as he comes. It’s debilitating, the force of it, he can hardly move by the time he stops coming.

Harry fucks him all the way through it and then some, clearly chasing his own orgasm. Louis watches in awe, still pinned to the bed, as Harry’s face screws up and his hips stutter to a stop. He moans loudly and comes, biting down into Louis’s shoulder.

Louis sighs happily and relaxes, eyes falling shut as Harry releases his grip on his wrists. He pulls out carefully, letting Louis’s legs fall closed, and uses his own pair of pants to clean up their mess.

“Nap,” Louis demands, reaching up for Harry. Harry falls gracelessly into his arms, smothering him half to death and kicking his legs until they’re under the covers and he can reach down to pull them up.

“Love you,” Harry mutters, looking up at him from where he’s resting on Louis’s shoulder.

Louis smiles and swipes his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone, watching him blink slowly and smile back. “ _Je t'aime aussi_ , I love you too” he whispers, watching until Harry’s eyes fall closed. Louis cuddles him close and lets his own eyes drift closed, smiling to himself. America, here he comes.

-

Harry leaves France the next morning. Louis sees him off with a snog against the door, and a promise that they’ll be together again in just a matter of days when Louis’s ship takes him across the Atlantic. They couldn’t take the same ship without raising eyebrows, and Harry had to go back today with the rest of the soldiers heading home. 

When Louis gets to America, Harry will pick him up from the dock and Louis will move into his apartment with him. Louis will start looking into schools for next fall, and Harry will pick up where he left off this fall. Harry says there are a bunch of pubs, and even a few nicer restaurants for Louis to find work until he starts school, and it all seems perfect. 

He arrives at the dock to leave France two days after Harry’s already gone with a single suitcase under his arm, and the knowledge that everything he needs is already waiting for him in America.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> if you liked the fic, you can reblog it [here](http://suspendrs-fics.tumblr.com/post/154396478602/fukcinglouis-autumn-leaves-by-suspendrs-27k), or you can [buy me a coffee](http://ko-fi.com/alyvia) :)
> 
>  
> 
> [faq](http://suspendrs-fics.tumblr.com/faq)
> 
> thank you for your comments, but i know the french is wrong. trust me, i've received _lots_ of feedback about it. thank you for your kind comments, otherwise.
> 
> this story is now available in paperback format in a small anthology of my fics! [you can buy it here](http://www.lulu.com/shop/suspendrs/in-every-universe-an-anthology/paperback/product-23739591.html)


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